Mint Soap
by xXSoldierXx
Summary: Mint soap. I eagerly inhaled Patch's scent, humming my approval as he traced gentle kisses along my jawline. His lips curved into a pirate smile against my skin, and my stomach fluttered with butterflies at the slightest touch of tongue against my pulse.
1. Mint Soap

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not claim ownership of the _Hush, Hush_ series by Becca Fitzpatrick, including Hush, Hush, Crescendo, Tempest, or any other installments of the _Hush, Hush_ series yet in publication. Additionally, in the following piece, I am not attempting to write Tempest. This is a pure work of fiction, mostly irrelevant to the ending of Crescendo.

**IMPORTANT WARNING:** This piece is rated M for mature content: beware of language, sexual situations, Limes, the occasional Lemon, alcohol use, violence, et cetera. And worst of all…SPOILERS! You have been generously warned.

**NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: **I just finished reading Crescendo last night, which was an extremely stressful read for me until the end of chapter twelve. I'm happy to say that I was very, very pleased with the resolution concerning Nora and Patch's relationship, but I was thrown into inner-turmoil at the thought that I'd be waiting until Fall of 2011 to read more of Patch and Nora. The cliffhanger ending was brutal. In hopes of getting some additional closure, I turned to my good friend Fanfiction and hunted around. Not to say that there wasn't anything enjoyable out there—I found some very nice pieces. But none of it lived up to what I was looking for in a _Hush, Hush _piece.

I contemplated writing something along the lines of: "What would have happened if Hank Millar had never shown up at the end of _Crescendo_?" but I've never written a Lemon one-shot—I've never actually written a Lemon in a fanfiction, period. Any of my experience with Lemons or Limes comes from role playing in the forums. With that being said, I realized that I'd probably get more joy out of writing something a little more in-depth while not having a YA rating attached. I'm considering making this a full-length piece, as opposed to a one-shot or drabble, as the ending of this chapter leaves off as if there's more to be done.

I tried to stay true to the information in the series, and I tried to be consistent with the characters' personalities (Patch is hard to keep in character). I also used a few of Fitzapatrick's favorite phrases in writing to make it as close to the real thing as possible. Anyway, the first chapter is mostly a Lemon; I tried to be tasteful about it; I don't really enjoy writing smut where it's not called for, so this kind of borders on fluff. Thanks to my readers for stumbling upon this humble piece of fiction.

I'll ask you to please view my important message below to understand when in the _Hush, Hush _series' timeline _Mint Soap_ takes place.

**IMPORTANT MESSAGE: **Allow me to explain where exactly _Mint Soap _falls into the _Hush, Hush _series' timeline. All of the events in the series still apply to _Mint Soap_, save the ending of Crescendo where Hank Millar intervenes and seizes poor Patch! See my little timeline below.

Rixon shoots Nora; Nora is hospitalized; Nora returns home...Patch appears at farmhouse; Patch returns Nora's ring...Patch and Nora go to Delphic; Patch takes Nora to his "apartment"...Hank Millar DOES NOT appear; Nora and Patch go through with having sex...A few days pass..._MINT SOAP_ begins.

* * *

_Mint soap._

_I eagerly inhaled Patch's scent, humming my approval as he traced gentle kisses along my jawline. I felt his lips curve into a pirate smile against my skin, and my stomach fluttered with butterflies at the slightest touch of tongue against my pulse. My heartbeat resonated through him, and I felt it through our held hands as Patch's fingers laced tightly with mine._

_His heartbeat raced to match mine, and his hands closed on my hips._

* * *

**Mint Soap**

A _Hush, Hush Series _Fanfiction by xXSoldierXx

It was a serene, quiet night—and a Friday. Mom was somewhere on the coast, probably closed up in a hotel while she waited for the roads to clear. I didn't know what the weather was like on the coast right then, but things had been overcast in Delphic, and they were overcast in Coldwater, too. Mom wouldn't be home until Sunday, at least, assuming the floods cleared up by tomorrow.

I had the whole weekend to myself; just Vee and me—or _Patch_ and me.

Earlier that day, I'd suffered from the disillusion that my date with Patch had come to an early end. We had spent the morning between Delphic Beach and Delphic amusement park, our premeditated day of park rides, sand, sun, and ocean interrupted by the unwelcome intrusion of chilly raindrops on the earth. In my sadness, Patch had assured me that the night was still young—a little bit of rain wasn't going to keep us from all that we'd planned.

His first suggestion had been carryout—he owed me, after all, for a similar dinner invitation that had been curtailed. Sensing that he was only humoring me though, I'd told him that all I really wanted to do was change into something dry and curl up with him on a sofa.

He knew what I'd _really _meant.

Patch and I stood together under an awning as we waited for the parking lot to clear out. Everyone was rushing to escape the brewing storm—if they thought it was bad then, it was about to get much worse. Rain began to pour down as the last of the stragglers flooded out of the Delphic Seaport Amusement Park. There were only a handful of cars still in the parking lot when Patch took my hand. We looked at each other, Patch's sly grin speaking levels of mischief, and I found myself smiling back, eager.

I squeezed Patch's hand, and we crossed the lot together, making a beeline for the steps leading up to the familiar utility shed just north of the Archangel. Patch fumbled with his key in the lock and held the big door open for me. It swung shut behind us, engulfing us in a darkness that seemed all too surreal.

I regretted that I couldn't see Patch—I could only _feel _him, his touch warm and urgent on my body. The toes of Patch's shoes were flush with my flip-flops as he backed me deeper into the shed. And that was when the guilt and realization hit me—it was _dark_. I didn't know all of the specifics about being a fallen-turned-guardian-turned-rogue angel, so I couldn't answer my own question when I asked myself if Patch had good night vision.

But in the event that he was seeing as little as I was seeing, coupled with his complete inability to sense my physical touch, Patch might as well have been sitting in the corner with his eyes closed.

He wouldn't get anything out of the experience, whatsoever.

Patch somehow felt that my body language had changed. His kisses ceased along my neck and he murmured softly against my throat, "Angel?"

I placed my hand on his hard chest and pushed gently against him. "It's cold," I said. I wasn't lying—the low ceiling in the utility shed was prone to leaks when there was weather. We stood very still, listening to the soft _rat-a-tat _of the rain on the roof. Cold droplets dripped down onto me, and I shivered, but Patch couldn't feel them. I felt the air shift as he pulled back from me and nodded, understanding. Cold plus wet equaled buzz kill.

"Coldwater?" he asked, his fingers still tangled up in mine.

I smiled through the darkness and pulled him towards the door. "My place."

* * *

Forty minutes later, Patch bounced his Jeep Commander into my flooded driveway. We didn't waste any time—Patch killed the engine, we reached for our doors, and our shoes crunched on the driveway at an identical moment. He aimed his fob at the Jeep—who knew why. My nearest neighbors were a little more than a mile away.

It was just something about what we were doing that made us feel overly cautious.

Inside the farmhouse, the lights were down, but enough outdoor light filtered in to cast a pale wash of white and grey on everything. I could see Patch clearly, and he could see me. This was where we needed to be right then, together—all alone—with nothing but time to make us mind ourselves.

Patch reached out with a hand to brush a rain-dampened curl from my face. I smiled and nuzzled his hand with my cheek, holding him there against my skin. He stepped in towards me, and I did the same, meeting him halfway. Our toes were flush once more, and I tipped my head back to stare up into Patch's liquid obsidian eyes. He leaned forward, lips touching mine very gently, and teased me with a slow, tantalizing kiss, sucking raindrops from my bottom lip.

It felt like minutes had passed before we took our first breaths. We separated, just barely, and our lips touched ever so slightly as we whispered to one another. "Jev 'Patch' Cipriano," I said softly, smiling. "I love you, with all of my heart."

Patch's lips smirked against mine, and he threaded his fingers gently through my brunette curls. "Oh? Nora Grey, Angel, I will love you until the day I die," he promised, and I felt my lips tug up into a barely repressed smile. Patch was immortal, and in saying that he'd love me until the day he died implied that he'd be loving me for a _very _long time—and I was okay with that.

It was like someone had pushed the pause button on us. We stood in silence for three counts—we were both thinking about the same thing: Hell. How long did we have until the Archangels found Patch guilty? It didn't matter anymore—the impending deadline wasn't important. I spent sleepless nights trying to convince myself that I couldn't change the hand Patch and I had been dealt—I could only make the most of it while we still had the freedom to do as we pleased.

And as that someone finally pushed the play button on us, we sprung into movement. I tugged on Patch's waistband, pulling him in closer, and his hands moved from my hair to flex across my lower back. He drew me into him, until there wasn't a part of us that wasn't touching, and I felt a shiver of pleasure all the way down to my toes. "Patch," I breathed, as his hands crept under my shirt. He began to trail kisses down my jaw.

My rain-drenched clothing left me feeling cold, and I was trembling against his body.

I could hear the soft whisper of air as Patch drew a breath in through his lips. He found the curve of my shoulder, kissing, licking, and sucking my skin. He was breathing me in, from the scent of sea salt to my perfume and my curl revitalizer. I laced my fingers through his wet black hair and turned my face to breathe him in, as well.

Mint soap.

I eagerly inhaled Patch's scent, humming my approval as he traced gentle kisses along my jawline. I felt his lips curve into a pirate smile against my skin, and my stomach fluttered with butterflies at the slightest touch of tongue against my pulse. My heartbeat resonated through him, and I felt it through our held hands as Patch's fingers laced tightly with mine.

His heartbeat raced to match mine, and his hands closed on my hips. Patch lifted me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist, my arms tightening around his neck. As we kissed, he moved us to the middle of the foyer and laid me down on the couch, our lips never breaking contact.

Patch moved to straddle my hips and brushed my cheek with the knuckles of his right hand. "You okay?" he asked, noticing that I was quivering.

I nodded and stammered, "My c-clothes are w-wet and c-cold."

Patch stared at me blankly, and then his face split into a devilish—_angelish_?—grin. "Your teeth are chattering," he observed, and I resisted a blush as he laughed at me. Suddenly, more seriously, Patch said, "I can take care of that."

His hand trailed down my neck and lingered on my shoulder. My skin thrummed with electricity as he nudged the strap of my tank top down, revealing a new expanse of smooth, suntanned skin for him to playfully dance his kisses over. Patch sank his teeth into my shoulder and I whimpered, aroused. His kisses trailed lower, just above my collarbone, and I felt his warm fingers brush my stomach as he began to lift my shirt.

I sat forward on the couch and lifted my arms obediently. The tank top came off over my head and fell to the floor. Patch's black gaze dropped to my chest where it lingered for several seconds. "That's new," he said, matter-of-factly, finally lifting his eyes to meet mine. I didn't bother to explain that it wasn't new—it was two months old.

But this was the first time I'd worn the black lacy bra since I purchased it with Vee at Victoria's Secret the day she'd been mugged. "It's sexy," Patch said, and laid a sensual kiss on the flesh of my breast. I moaned softly at the sensations he was giving me, and curled my fingers into his wet hair. His hands slid to my hips, then to my thighs, where he stroked them eagerly. "_You're _sexy, Angel."

I untangled my fingers from his hair and grasped the hem of his t-shirt. "Off—_now_," I demanded. He grinned, releasing my legs to pull his shirt off over his head. He flung it off the side of the couch and bent to hold me by my face, laying gentle kisses everywhere.

"Anything else, Angel?"

I moaned into his kiss. "Mmm…_shoes_."

He kicked off his shoes.

I slid my hands up his bare chest, grasped him behind the neck, and pulled him in. Our lips clashed in a heated, chaotic kiss, involving tongue, teeth, and ragged breathing. As he undid the clasp on my bra, cupped my breasts, and squeezed, I felt my self-control begin to slip. I slammed the door on my brain, as I did every time I encountered Patch in this way—I found that it was best not to think when Patch and I fooled around behind my mom's back. I'd stopped feeling bad about it a while ago.

I hooked my fingers in Patch's waistband. His jeans, which hung low on his waist, came unbuttoned beneath my quick fingers. He laughed low in his throat as I urgently tugged them down, pushing them off his legs with my feet. To my horror, he withdrew from me and stepped off the couch, naked but for black boxers that made him look alluring. "Patch, no!" I cried, grasping for him desperately.

He held a silencing finger to my lips. "_Shh_, Angel," he coaxed, taking me gently by the wrists. I went with him willingly and he led me to the staircase. We climbed rapidly, stumbling playfully over one another, until we arrived at my bedroom door. Patch lifted me again, and my legs closed around his waist, as he bumped the door open and crossed the threshold. We were kissing frantically, our anticipation heightening with each passing second. I was grinding frenziedly against him, and all the while, I could feel Patch's cocky grin against my lips as he gloated in how bad I had it for him.

He dropped me carefully onto the bed and tugged my beach shorts down my long legs. _Deadly legs_, he whispered to my thoughts, and I giggled, drunk on the intoxicating scent of leather and mint soap on Patch's tanned skin. "Last one," he said out loud, fingering the waistband of my panties.

"Five dollars says you can't sink the blue striped ball," I quipped—the same bet I'd made on our first date at Bo's Arcade so many months ago. I gave Patch my best imitation of his sexy pirate smile. No doubt he'd registered the innuendo.

"You know what happens when you make that bet," Patch murmured into my hair—it sounded like a warning. "You _lose_." I felt him grin against my neck, and my underwear suffered the same fate as my beach shorts. My panties fell to the floor, ignored, and I hugged my body tightly to Patch's, relieved to feel his warmth after discarding my rain-soaked clothing.

Patch pushed hair out of my eyes and kissed me, his index finger trailing a line of rippling pleasure between my breasts, down my stomach, and to my core. I screamed, loud and lascivious, as he manipulated me in a fashion I knew he'd manipulated many others. I thrust with my hips, moaning softly to fuel Patch's desire. When I opened my eyes, he was staring at me, his black irises burning with a lust for my body. _Bingo_, I thought, and snapped forward to capture his lips in a hot, heavy kiss.

Biting his bottom lip, I tugged his boxers down and pushed them off with my feet. He licked my lip in response, not even bothering to ask me if I was sure this was what I wanted—we knew we were both feeling the same urgent desire, and we'd done this a few times already.

We aligned ourselves, Patch's movements much more practiced than mine, and he submersed himself in me, our bodies heaving simultaneously. I sank my teeth into his shoulder to keep from yelling out, and he gave a low groan, reacting more to emotional stimulus than anything physical. I tried not to think about how he couldn't feel any of this and unclamped my teeth from his flesh. I would give him something to smirk about.

"Patch!" I moaned, tightening my grip on him. My arms threaded under his and hooked around his shoulders—a hold on him I found satisfied the control I wanted over his body, while simultaneously avoiding brushing his wings. Sex with Patch had been a trial and error experience at first, as we worked together to find a way that I could brace myself against him without being thrust into his memories at an inopportune moment. The first few times, I'd wanted to touch his wings—I'd wanted to know more about the mysterious angel I'd fallen in love with. But after that, the desire to feel pleasure overrode my curiosity about his past—that and I'd learned to save the memory-delving for pillow talk.

He held me with one arm, the other braced against the pillow as he hovered over me, and his black eyes sliced into mine. I struggled for eye contact, every one of my nerve endings screaming with pleasure. I wanted nothing more than to tip my head back, close my eyes, and feel the rough yet ecstatic sensation of Patch thrusting into me. But I knew he enjoyed this more when he could see into my eyes.

I bit my lip and held his gaze, a whimper forcing itself out between my teeth. He was good, and he knew it, because he stroked my cheek and crashed his lips onto mine in a victory kiss, intensifying our passion.

My legs tightened around his waist at the peak of my pleasure. The bed rocked into the wall, and I realized that I'd thrust an arm out, grasping for something to curl my fingers around. I'd misjudged my place on the bed, and instead of grasping sheets, my hand hit the nightstand. I groped around blindly, knocking a book light and my cell phone to the floor. My fingers brushed the cool glass of Patch's snow globe as white stars exploded behind my eyelids, and I screamed his name a final time before my body went limp beneath his.

The bed continued to rock beneath us, Patch somehow estimating that he'd not yet reached his limit. It wasn't terribly long before he succumbed to the height of his lust, and he rolled off of me with all the indifference of a one night stand. But when I looked into his eyes, he was passionate. His lips curled into a smile—not a smirk or a grin—a genuine smile, and he kissed my cheek, his obscenely long lashes tickling my skin. "Angel," he breathed. "You're crying."

I blinked tears out of my eyes as he pulled the duvet over us, turning my head to the side to look into Patch's obsidian orbs. "I am?" I whispered, having not even realized.

Patch's smile faltered. "Did I hurt you?"

"No!" I sat up quickly, propping my torso off of the bed with an elbow. Tousled curls fell over my face and Patch laughed at me, reaching up to push them behind my ears. He lay on his side, his head sunk halfway into the pillow. "No," I continued. "It's never hurt, I just…." I didn't have the courage to say it to Patch. Through all of the heat and ecstasy, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop my thoughts from straying—to his glass-like body, to his fate with the Archangels', to the lonely life I'd lead without him.

I didn't want to miss this—this love-making, this pillow talk, this warmth I got from his body as he held me afterward. He didn't have to ask. He knew what I was thinking—he always seemed to.

Patch didn't say a word. He simply moved in closer, laying on his right side, as the fingers of his right hand laced with the fingers of my left. Our hands stayed tangled like that, resting between us on the pillow. His left hand rose to brush my cheek and he pushed the rest of my stray curls back from my face. "Stop it," he told me, and I forced myself to nod. "Don't cry over what you can't help."

I cuddled up to Patch and closed my eyes, willing the tears to stop. He wiped my eyes of the remaining moisture, brushing a thumb across my cheekbones. "I love you," I whimpered, and his thumb paused on my skin. There weren't many things I could say or do that often gave Patch pause, but I opened my eyes slowly when my declaration was met with silence. His black eyes were scrutinizing me. His thumb resumed its path along my face to my chin, and he tilted my head back to kiss my swollen lips.

"I love you, Angel," he whispered against me, and kissed my eyelashes, my tears coming away on his lips.

_And you look sexy with your hair wild like that._

I blushed, burying my face in Patch's chest to hide the heat that crept into my face.

Patch, smarter and stronger than the average human male, never fell asleep after sex. He had a pattern, in fact. Sometimes he'd get up directly afterward to do something ridiculous like make me tacos or pick my clothes up off the floor. Other times, he'd hold me until I could no longer stay awake for pillow talk, whispering sweet nothings (and some not-so-innocent implications) to my thoughts as I drifted into a dream. I usually let him. But this time, as he kissed the top of my head, I grabbed him by the wrist and held him to me as he began to pull away. "Don't leave me," I said, in a pouty, seductive tone.

His eyes flicked to me, laying with my curls all over the place and the duvet up to my chin, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully at how not-seductive I was being. "Go to sleep, Angel," he finally said.

"Hold me," I countered quickly, as he tried to pull away again. "Until I fall asleep. Please. And then you can make all the tacos you want."

Patch paused on the edge of the bed, his black eyes on my face. I tried to hold his gaze but found myself admiring the strong muscles of his back, his arms, his chest, and his stomach—all for me. Patch rolled his eyes but dropped obediently to the bed. "Good deal," he said, and pulled me against him with my back to his chest, his fingers in my hair, as the night quickly faded.

We stayed like that for several minutes, Patch's breath slow and deep by my ear. I felt my breathing do the same as my bedroom began to blur around the edges. I wanted to touch Patch's wings and experience his memories, but he'd anticipated that and was spooning me, his smooth back out of my reach. I thought I'd had the chance to finally drift into a dream when my phone cut the silence. My eyes snapped open, and though Patch's body was relaxed against mine, I knew his face was rigid.

"You expecting a call?" he murmured, and I shook my head quickly, glancing back over my shoulder in the direction of my phone.

Patch's warmth broke away from me as he rolled onto his back, dropping an arm off the side of the bed to snatch up the fallen phone. He glanced at the mini-LCD before flipping it open. "Hello."

I rolled over and laid my head on Patch's chest, listening to his heartbeat, slow and rhythmic, and the low timbre of his voice vibrating against my ear as he spoke into the phone. "She's asleep," he lied, and I lifted my head to give him a curious look.

"Who is it?" I mouthed, dragging my fingers over the muscles of his chest.

His black eyes flicked to mine, annoyed. I didn't think he was going to answer me. "She'll call you tomorrow."

"_Patch,_" I hissed. "Who _is_ it?"

And then I heard Vee's voice screaming on the other end of the phone. "_Is that Nora?_" she exclaimed, and Patch jerked the phone away from his ear, scowling at the device as if it had bitten him. "_Patch, you liar, put her on the phone right now!_"

Patch murmured a low chain of curses and passed me the phone, lying back with his arms draped over his eyes. I suppressed laughter and laid a kiss on his chest. "Vee?" I said into the phone.

"Nora! It's almost midnight and Patch is answering your phone—is Patch sleeping over there?"

"It's almost midnight?" I repeated, squinting at the nightstand. My alarm said 11:55. "Why are you calling me if it's almost midnight?"

"Don't change the subject, Nora," Vee lectured. "I want the full scoop here—go heavy on the details!"

"Goodnight, Vee."

"No—wait!" she suddenly interjected. "I…I really had a reason for calling—I was in Portland meeting some guys at a party when the storm rolled in. I got stranded there for a couple of hours and the Neon goofed out on the highway. I'm seriously about to pee my pants, babe. Can you come get me?"

Patch lifted his arm from his eyes and looked at me askance. I jutted my bottom lip out at him and he heaved a sigh. "Yeah, Vee," I said, grinning victoriously. "We'll come get you."

* * *

Patch drove half an hour on Interstate 295; we were 27 miles from Topsham by the time we spotted the Neon pulled over on the other side of the interstate, its lights off but for the small overheads inside. Patch eased into the leftmost lane and drove until we reached a break in the median. He made an illegal U-turn and drove northeast until he could pull up behind Vee's car, flashing his headlights at her for her to get out.

A couple of seconds later, Vee emerged from the Neon, and to Patch's and my surprise, she was followed by a pair of less-than-clean-cut looking teenagers. "Want to explain this?" Patch asked, his eyes slicing through the windshield at the approaching Vee and her male compatriots.

I raised my hands, claiming innocence. "I had no idea—I thought she was alone."

I could tell what Patch was thinking: _So did I._ I could tell by the way his jaw flexed under his skin that he was trying to keep his temper in check. Vee hadn't told us she was with anyone so that we would agree to pick her up—and that explained why she'd called me, not her dad, to come get her.

Vee opened the door and climbed into the backseat of the Commander. "Hey, guys!" she exclaimed, and made room for her shady friends to crawl in after her. One was tall and brooding, the other a little more on the sociable side—still tall, still brooding. "Meet Juice and Tripp. They'll be joining us tonight on the S.S. Patch Express."

"Vee." I looked at her sternly, my eyes explaining what she already knew. She shrugged, and I gave her a look that communicated we'd be finishing this conversation later. Patch stomped on the gas pedal and pulled out onto the interstate.

He didn't speak a word the whole drive back to Coldwater.

* * *

"You owe me big time," I said to Vee as we dressed the couch in the foyer. Aside from her tagalong boy toys (we'd dumped them off at Topsham), she'd failed to mention that her cover story for the party in Portland was a sleepover at my house. I dropped a pillow on the sofa and sat down on the couch arm. Vee's face twisted into something skeptical as she bent at the waist and came up again, my lacy bra pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

"Holy freak show, you and Patch screwed on this couch, didn't you?"

I snatched my bra from her, blushing furiously as she raised her eyebrows meaningfully and wagged her hips. "I _knew _it. Sorry, Nora, but I can't sleep on this couch. It's tainted."

"Oh, whatever," I said, rolling my eyes. "We didn't 'screw' on the couch." I wasn't lying—even if Patch and I hadn't gone up to my room that night, I would have told Vee the same thing. "Are you going to tell me what happened in Portland?"

"Are you going to tell me what happened with you and Patch?" Vee countered. "What's Patch like? He's good, isn't he? I predicted that when we started school last year, remember? Was I right or was I right?"

I sighed, pushing a hand through my curls. I dragged my fingers down my face and blinked the sleep from my eyes. In spite of how upset I was with Vee for dragging me out to Portland in the middle of the night, I knew with conviction that she'd have done the same for me. She was my best friend, and I couldn't stay mad at her for something like this.

"I'll tell you what," I said gently. "You go to sleep now, Patch will make breakfast in the morning, and you and I will trade info, okay?"

"Sounds like a deal, babe," Vee said, and I climbed the stairs, shutting the lights off behind me.

* * *

Patch was coming out of the bathroom when I got to the top of the stairs. He was bare-chested, wearing nothing but a towel tied low around his waist. "Hey," he said, looking me up and down. Patch's eyes lingered a beat too long on my breasts, braless beneath a snug graphic tee, and he followed me into my bedroom. I stood in front of my dresser and sorted out a pair of pajama pants and a matching top.

In the mirror, I saw Patch shake out the tips of his hair. "Hey," I said back, but it was off pitch. My voice was thick with sleep as I stripped out of my t-shirt and jeans.

I picked the flannel pants up off of my dresser. When I looked up, Patch's vision approached me in the mirror, his hand lingering on my naked shoulder. It swept gently down my back to rest on my hip, raising goose bumps in its wake. I turned to look into Patch's liquid obsidian eyes, but I didn't have the chance to blink before his lips crushed mine with fervor.

Patch backed me into the dresser and lifted me onto it. My fingers loosened on the pajamas and they fell to the floor, as did Patch's towel half a beat later. Patch spread his hands on the dresser, just outside of my hips, and he kissed me feverishly until I stopped to draw a breath. My gaze flitted to my flannel pants on the floor, then to my warm, cozy bed. But with Patch's hands braced firmly on my hips and his lips trailing kisses along my collarbone, my resistance crumbled.

I shimmied forward to sit on the edge of the dresser and melted into him for the second time that night, not even bothering to point out that Patch had left my bedroom door open.

* * *

**And there you have Mint Soap, chapter 1! Thanks for reading.**


	2. Overruled

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not claim ownership of the _Hush, Hush_ _Saga _by Becca Fitzpatrick, including Hush, Hush, Crescendo, Silence, or any other installments of the _Hush, Hush_ _Saga_ not yet in publication. Additionally, _Mint Soap _is a pure work of fiction, mostly irrelevant to the ending of Crescendo and the events of Silence.

**IMPORTANT WARNING:** This piece is rated M for mature content, adult themes, and worst of all…SPOILERS! You have been generously warned.

**NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: **I apologize for the delay, and I give my thanks to everyone who reviewed and/or subscribed to _Mint Soap_ or me, as an author. I'm not traditionally a Lemon writer—I _do _get the vibe that reader traffic will slow if I discontinue the smut, which I'm hoping is a gross misconception. Incidentally, my creative genius leans towards fluff and romance…and all the things that come with it. It may make me look like a skeev (and I swan it has nothing to do with indecency; it's meant to be demonstrative, not obscene), but with the way Silence ended, I feel justified. You can't tell me that that's _not_ the reason why you're reading this. _You _want more Patch x Nora, too!

**NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER: **There's a lot going on, which lends to the length. Hopefully that won't deter you. This chapter has seen so manyrevisions in the past several months, but updates won't traditionally be this infrequent. It still took upwards of ten pages to resolve this chapter, so I edited out some big scenes. If you're confused by any of the information in the last half of the chapter, pages 105 and 305 in Crescendo are good references.

I completed the rough draft long before the release of Silence, and I was nervous about introducing new fallen angels, but after meeting Gabe and his buddies in canon, I'm more open to the idea, and I think you will be, too. In the next few chapters, you'll meet Mikhail and Liam. Don't be cowed. OC's are necessary for plot progression. Keep in mind these characters are supposed to look teenaged. I'd say Mikhail is a straight-haired Catherine Zeta-Jones type, and Liam is a dark Gaspard Ulliel type, if you'd like my humble opinion. Hopefully you'll be able to enjoy them! The male is Liam, which means "strong-willed warrior," and the female is Mikhail, which means, "Who resembles God?"

Lastly, I was toying with the idea of Patch's heritage, and the abilities, human or inhuman, that being immortal and having all the time in the world to do whatever you want can lend to. There's some Italian in this chapter, and I don't speak Italian. I used _lots _of translators. The bottom line is that I put my all into the research, so I apologize if any of the Italian is still incorrect; I tried my best without being able to judge it for myself.

**IMPORTANT MESSAGE: **See the first chapter of _Mint Soap_ for information on _Mint Soap_'s timeline.

* * *

_The longer I went on knowing about the archangels, murder, mysterious banishments, and disappearances to hell, the more and more my moral compass seemed to point directly south._

* * *

**Mint Soap**

A _Hush, Hush Series _Fanfiction by xXSoldierXx

I woke again in Patch's warm embrace.

I could feel him, all soft skin and hard muscle as I lay nestled with my back to his chest. His arm was curled possessively about my waist, holding me close, and I opened my eyes to the familiar sight of my bedroom blanketed in shade. The faintest hints of morning sunlight filtered in through the slats in the window blinds, painting streaks of white and gold across the floor. They left a radiant warmth on my skin, which settled leisurely into flesh and bone the way lapping waves hug a sandy beach.

Patch's soft exhalations were deep and steady by my ear. I breathed deeply of him and twisted at the hips, my eyes moving to memorize every part of his face, all tan skin and masculine angles that said he was certainly of an Italian bloodline. Then again, I pondered the notion of bloodlines and angels. Was it possible for angels to have babies with other angels, or could they only make Nephilim with the humans on Earth? Were there family resemblances in heaven? I traced the solid line of Patch's jaw, noticing that it was set in such a way that seemed inconsistent with sleep. Even so, he was the image of serenity—an epitomic blend of solace and _really _good genes, if he had any.

Patch's eyes opened to reveal twin orbs of an abysmal black, as if my gentle touch had roused him from slumber. "Angel," he murmured lowly, his voice hoarse with sleep. Patch's mouth held a curve that wasn't altogether a smirk. He rolled, trapping me beneath the cage of his body, and I stifled the squeal that rose up in me, meeting his intense gaze. I felt nailed down by those mesmerizing eyes, unable to move, even if I'd wanted to. There was a very thin margin of space between us, I in my flannel pajamas, Patch in much less. I noted this as he kissed a path from my neck to my collarbone. Without meaning to, I acquiesced.

He whispered softly, murmuring my name. The gentle, titillating lilt of his voice made promises to my desire that I knew only Patch could fulfill. The fluttering in my middle was a knee-jerk reaction, and it reminded me that Patch truly was a master of every trade—particularly seduction, among his myriad worldly talents; pool, theft, hotwiring, murder….

I pretended that his touch and murmurs had no effect on me, but I must not have been very convincing.

For just that moment, I lost myself in the thought that our destinies were inextricably intertwined—that once upon a time, Patch had fallen for another, but he'd stayed for me, and I was meant to be with him. I couldn't see it any other way. Not after Patch had been there for me, for better or for worse, through all of the confusion and pain of my mother's alleged affair, my illegitimacy, my father's death, and the numerous attempts on my life. Even if I couldn't always see it, Patch had had my best interests in mind. He'd always kept a watchful eye on me. Now that we were finally together, for what I thought was officially and permanently, I had closure—I had this satisfying sense of fruition.

I closed my eyes and succumbed to Patch's kisses, his lips on mine first playful, then sensual. Patch kissed a path from my mouth to my shoulder, one hand skimming my arm, the other tangled up in my unruly curls. I flexed my hands across hard muscle, skillfully avoiding the invisible junction where his wings joined at his back.

Patch's fingers expertly worked the top few buttons of my shirt, nipping and sucking the skin as he unearthed it, each inch a brand new find that stirred anew his lust for me.

I breathed heavily of his scent and let him taste my pulse, noticing for the first time that he lacked his usual mint fragrance. His lips tasted like me, and his scent was now reminiscent of sex and soap—_my_ soap. The fruity tang of curl revitalizer was beneath it all, convincing me that I was slowly taking over every part of him. There wasn't a bit of Patch that wasn't redolent of me by now, which actually made me just the tiniest bit proud….

"Nora…," Patch intoned, speaking my name as if he'd caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.

I cracked my eyes open, just a little, and cocked my head curiously to one side. "What is it?" I asked softly, puzzled by the way Patch seemed to tear into me with his gaze.

Slowly, he grinned, and murmured a bemused, "You're moaning. _Loudly_."

I…was? A flush crept into my cheeks at the accusation. If I'd been moaning, especially _loudly_, I hadn't noticed. Not until Patch had said anything. As if to prove his point, he lowered his head to the crook of my neck and flicked his tongue over a tender bruise, sending shockwaves through me. My moan, though soft, was unsolicited. Oh _god_, I couldn't help it. Patch had a way with my body that I couldn't quite describe.

Patch chuckled in a way that sounded obviously self-satisfied, the gentle thrum of his laughter stirring interesting sensations in all the places where we touched—which was _everywhere_, since he expertly straddled me. His body fit so perfectly against mine. Even fully dressed, he had a way that made me feel _naked_ from head to toe. His hands traced my hips, tickling me without meaning to—though honestly, he might have. Patch's mischievous black eyes were mere centimeters from mine, and as he held my gaze, I felt the blood vessels in my face slowly widen.

Patch stared deep into me for a personal eternity, the silence so perfect that all I could hear was my pulse hammering in my ears, not even Patch's breathing, and not even my own. (I'm not sure, but I _may _have beenholding my breath.) The tension between us stretched and pulled to its capacity, like a rubber band that threatened to snap. Before I could finally draw a breath, the tension shattered, and the band simply _broke_.

Patch's lips came against mine so hard, I swallowed a gasp as it was forming.

The moment his skin made contact with mine under the covers, I found myself wondering if I'd only imagined that I'd been wearing pants a moment before…. Slowly, Patch leaned into me with intentions that were devious. My moan, lost in our stifling kiss, became low and sensual. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst inside my ribcage, the two of us coming together and loving every minute of passion in our timeless oblivion. His breath on my skin was exhilarating, and my voice gently rose to bounce off the walls in rolling peals. Patch's rare, low utterances marked the off-beats of my gentle exclamations.

I was immobilized prey, petrified into a position that rendered me defenseless against Patch, a predator. Even if I'd been able to move, nothing could have made me beg for him to stop his ministrations. After a few moments, Patch dropped, a satisfied sound marking his gratification, anesthetized as it was. He knelt astride me, his weight held off of me by a leg on either side, an elbow by either ear. I thought maybe I'd never understand how he did it—or _why _he did it. This majestic, unfeeling creature was mysteriously so attuned to my fragile, human body. He could make every fiber sing with ecstasy without even trying.

I sighed breathily, high off the remnants of my pleasure.

Patch's lips turned up in an arrogant grin, but not a word was said.

I complimented him gently, and then pressed a kiss to his lips. Patch kissed me back before rolling to one side, pillowing his head with one arm, wiping his free hand down his face. I faced him and chewed my bottom lip thoughtfully before asking, "Is it my birthday? Or maybe it's yours! What's got you so riled up anyway?"

Patch cracked his fingers slightly and shot me a sideways glance. His eyes skimmed over the parts of me above the coverlet, including the top few buttons he'd undone and the flannel shirt that was falling off of one shoulder. I was quivering on the inside under his predatory gaze, and I fought to trap in another involuntary moan when he said, "Your deadly legs, and that killer curvy mouth." He continued to appraise me, half to himself, half to me. My heart wiggled up into my throat, choking me. I drew a ragged breath, feeling an emotion hard to describe as Patch's expression slowly changed. "I thought it would be fairly _obvious_," Patch intoned said softly, sobering up. His arrogant smirk became a bittersweet smile. "It's _you_, Nora Grey; you mustbe aware of the effect you have on me."

I was.

The mattress sunk beneath us as his body shifted closer. A finely muscled arm grabbed me and held me flush against his body. Patch buried his face in my hair, breathing me in, and I pressed my forehead into the junction of his neck and shoulder, feeling more muscle there. _He's got dynamite trapezii_, I thought, and then proceeded to ask myself why in the world Patch was with someone like me...

"I wanted to make the best of today," Patch admitted solemnly. "Because of tonight… Have you changed your mind?"

My Cheshire grin suddenly faltered, reluctance making my stomach hard. I was grateful for Patch's face nuzzled into my hair, because I'd probably have disappointed him if he'd seen my less-than-stellar reaction with his own eyes. Licking my lips, I furiously grabbed for something to say. Nothing appropriate came to mind, so I hummed and whispered, "No, I haven't, Patch." I managed to sound earnest rather than put out. If Patch noticed anything off about my answer, he didn't say.

Instead, he kissed my hair, and I felt suddenly empty as he tore himself away. "I'm going to shower. Meet me downstairs."

* * *

I washed up in my mom's en suite bathroom before padding back to my room, toes sinking deep into the throw rug. I slid open the slatted closet doors, thinking back to the weather report the morning before and dressing lightly for an Indian summer. Maine is by no means a warm or tropical place, but if the weatherman said it would be in the eighties today, I took a gamble and pulled my outfit out of my closet. I'd always been a real big sucker for the underdog.

Even having taken the time to wash my curls and apply some makeup, I managed to beat Patch to the staircase. He was nowhere in sight, and if I my mind wasn't playing tricks on me, I thought I heard the shower still running down the hall.

I froze halfway down, a socked foot poised mid-step, when I heard Vee scream, "Holy freak show, Nora!"

My best friend, Vee Sky, was on the couch in the foyer, curled up before a muted television that was broadcasting some kind of National Geographic-type wildlife documentary. Her face and knuckles had gone white, one hand curled tightly around the remote control, the other fisted around a length of fluffy quilt. Her face held a look of mock-horror, but there was a hint of underlying curiosity as she took in my wet curls, Daisy Dukes, and off-the-shoulder, thin cotton sweater.

I felt a chastisement coming on, and I forged ahead, feeling exceptionally daring.

"You could have at least closed the door before you and Patch did the Big Deed last night," Vee teased, rolling her green eyes at the impulsive nature of human attraction. She threw off her quilt, revealing my pajama bottoms paired with the shirt she'd worn to Portland the night before. "_And _this morning. Geez, babe, you're an animal. Did he spank you hard? Did he turn you over on his knee and make you—"

"Ohmigod, Vee!" I exclaimed, unable to hide humiliated undertones. A furious blush crept into my face, and I turned away at the sight of two frisky caribou humping furiously on television. "It's not like that! I—"

Vee held up a silencing hand. "I don't want excuses," she said, and began to tick demands off on her fingers. "I want _breakfast_, the fee paid for my tow, and details, sans censorship—agreed?"

My expression went lax as Vee stifled diabolical laughter. "You must be delusional if you think I'm going to pay for your tow charge," I intoned, closing the distance between the sofa and the stairs. I dropped down beside her, and my body sunk deep into the cushions. An upward puff of air sent my curls floating, and I quickly rearranged them to hang correctly about my face. Vee was pouting, her bottom lip thrust out a hairsbreadth too far to be cute. "Portland was _your_ doing, Vee, and you made me your alibi. I'm not paying for your tow charge."

A long silence elapsed, and I could see in her face that she was deliberating. Her lips formed a tight line, a smile threatening to surface every now and then. As she struggled against it, I saw all too well that she was putting on an act. Her real interest was in my gossip. "Fine by me," Vee consented too quickly, confirming my suspicions. "You still owe me those details, though."

"And you still owe me yours," I countered, dodging the limelight. "_Portland_? What was that all about?"

Vee hesitated, doing a full-on grimace. "It's no big deal—I got to talking with some guys at Enzo's." She made a rolling gesture with her hands, illustrating the progression of her relationship with her two new ruffian friends. "They invited me to a party in Portland," she explained, making more erratic hand gestures to paint an obscure picture in the space between us. "So I drove out there to meet them. We stayed a while. Things got dull. They bummed a ride back to Topsham. That's when the Neon ran out of gas. Enter Patch and Nora."

That was Vee for you, always getting into sticky situations. Given her standard, her Portland escapade erred on the milder side of miscreant behavior, and neither Patch nor I were very impressed. Even so, Vee looked surprised by my less-than-explosive reaction, probably expecting one of my high-strung chastisements of right versus wrong. What could I say? The longer I went on knowing about the archangels, murder, mysterious banishments, and disappearances to hell, the more and more my moral compass seemed to point directly south.

"That's not so bad," I admitted, but I gave her a pointed look so she wouldn't think I'd gone soft. "_They_—Juice and Tripp, were they?—looked pretty, uh, _shady_."

"Oh, _please_," Vee drawled, rolling her eyes and cracking a smile. "I can't have my own personal Scott Parnells?"

My face grew warm at the reminder of my near-fling with the Nephil. "Juice and Tripp are _not_ Scott Parnells," I hissed, and Vee gave me a look that spoke on all levels of skepticism.

"Right…" Sarcasm drew out the vowel. "And you didn't almost have sex with Scottie the Hottie _just_ to make Patch eat crow. Someone's getting _defensive_," the minky blond rebutted, making me regret that I'd ever divulged _that_ little gem of a secret. Vee raised her hands at my incensed scowl—_I'm innocent_, the gesture said—but I knew Vee's patchy track record _all_ too well. Innocent was _not_ a word I'd use to describe the eccentric girl.

I felt the stirrings of an argument coming on, but I didn't want to go there. Not today. I shook my head and mirrored her pose, my hands held up in acquiescence. "I am _not _defensive—Scott Parnell is in the past. Can we just let it go?"

Vee looked like she had a comeback on the tip of her tongue, but it died there at the sound of the floorboards creaking overhead. Our eyes turned simultaneously to the head of the staircase where Patch appeared, wearing a short towel draped over his broad, relaxed shoulders.

He descended the stairs, his wavy midnight hair still wet from his shower. Patch was barefoot, dressed in a fresh pair of dark wash jeans that hung low on his hips. I noticed Vee taking in the way his white t-shirt—a far cry from his usual black—clung to the muscles of his chest, a little tight from extreme exercise.

I hear morning sex will do that to you.

Beside me, Vee whimpered in sheer bliss. I cleared my throat, not surprised when she returned the gesture but never averted her gaze.

"What's up?" Patch said, reaching the foot of the stairs. He crossed the foyer in a few broad strides, feet so silent on the hardwood floor that I actually wondered if he was really there or just a figment of my imagination.

"Morning," Vee said. She clambered out of the deep cushions and was hot on Patch's heels.

I joined her.

"I have something special planned for you both," Patch hinted mysteriously, steering left into the kitchen at the end of the hall.

"Ooh, what might _that_ be?" Vee stage whispered, shooting me a sly look that promised mischief. She nudged me a little too hard, discreetly wagging her hips and murmuring incoherently about strip teases and calendar models. My eyes stretched at the thought. I gave Vee a pointed look that said there would be no such talk with Patch around.

No need to give him any crazy ideas, after all...

We emerged into the kitchen and seated ourselves at the center island, prying eyes free to take in the sights as Patch opened and closed cabinets. I ogled him in silence as his long fingers selected cylindrical canisters from the spice rack. When he reached, his thin tee-shirt rose to reveal that slight slip of skin just above the waistband of his jeans (and the navy blue boxers peeking out above his belt).

I lost the strength to elbow Vee when Patch bent over, searching the contents of a cupboard low to the ground. Vee was practically drooling beside me. "His ass is _awesome_," she whispered.

I found myself nodding in wordless agreement. Patch _did _have an awesome ass.

I might have nudged Vee and cleared my throat at her and pretended it bothered me that she checked Patch out from time to time, but truth be told, I really wasn't bothered by her tendencies to openly ogle my boyfriend—not really.

In my mind, Vee was something of a mourning widow. Immediately after Rixon's disappearance from Coldwater, she just hadn't been the same old Vee. The public was pretty clear on the fact that Rixon had been the shooter that day at Delphic—not Scott Parnell. Overwhelming though it may have been, the media coverage actually _helped_ sway Vee to believe that her ex-boyfriend had been bad news—that he didn't deserve her sympathy, and that he shouldn't have been missed. Homicidal repeat-offender track record aside, I couldn't have made Vee forget the feelings she'd had for Rixon once upon a time. By that same token, there was no denying that what Rixon had felt for Vee was real.

I thought I could understand how hard it must have been for Vee to find out that her boyfriend was homicidal. I remembered sitting in the Jeep outside of Sea Dog Brewing Co. on my first date with Patch, putting my nose where it hadn't belonged all in the name of a dangerous attraction. I remembered snooping around in his glove compartment, holding my breath and hoping for the best while he went inside for sandwiches. The red-splattered flashlight I'd found hadn't been a murder weapon… But the terror I'd felt _before _realizing this had been immense—and _heartbreaking_.

I had known _I_ wasn't going to be the one to tell Vee the truth about Rixon—how could I have possibly explained that he was a fallen angel and Patch had chained him up in hell? In fact, I'd thought I was going to take Rixon's secret to the grave with me. But I hadn't known any better. Not then. My decision had begun to take its toll on my best friend. Day by day, I'd watched her lose her mind a little bit at a time, until the weight of the unknown had become too much for her to bear.

It killed me to do it, but I'd turned to Patch—asked him if there was some way he could alleviate Vee's pain. He'd said that he could, and without my consent, he wiped her memories of the knowledge that she'd ever loved Rixon.

Today, Vee knew nothing more of Rixon than the average Coldwater resident. She'd overheard the shooting coverage on the news one morning at breakfast, and that had been the end of it. "Rixon who?" she'd asked me one day, and that was the last time I ever said "Rixon" out loud.

It was eerie how effective Patch's fallen angel powers were. The notion of mind-manipulation unnerved me, and I admit that I'd been upset with Patch for choosing to do what he did. Eventually though, I became grateful that Vee was no longer carrying the burden of Rixon's betrayal. It took me a little longer to forgive Patch for toying with her mind, but, in the end, I couldn't undo what he'd done. His explanation that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission had somehow placated me, though it should have had me running scared or at the very least angry, but it was too easy to stay positive after Vee was back to her usual self.

By usual, I mean that Vee wasn't so anti-Patch without Rixon around to influence her opinions. She was back to the same old best friend of mine who'd fantasized about ravishing Patch on top of a lab table, back in the days when he'd only been a mysterious transfer student and my biology partner. Vee wouldn't be ravishing Patch anytime soon, but the least I could do was let her dream.

Patch's voice cut through our fantasies with a softly spoken, "Are these eggs still good?"

My eyes flicked to the carton in Patch's hands, and I nodded. "Yeah, they should be," I said. Vee raised an eyebrow, causing Patch to pause in whatever he was about to do. He raised an eyebrow back, disturbed by whatever innuendo Vee had just thought of. When she grinned, he turned his back on us, flipped on all the necessary appliances, and began to cook us breakfast.

My memories catapulted me back into the Saturday mornings in the recesses of my mind. I floated through images of Dorothea, my mom's former housekeeper, standing before the stove, just like Patch was now, cooking for me. Any visions I saw of the kindly German-born housekeeper disappeared with each tantalizing shift of Patch's hips.

"It looks great!" Vee exclaimed, snapping me out of my stupor, and mysterious undertones suggested she might not have been talking about the breakfast he'd prepared.

I glanced down at the counter, which was covered in a delicious spread of breakfast foods: eggs of a couple different preparations, syrup-drenched pancakes, bacon, sliced fruits, yogurt, and waffles. Waffles? _We don't have a waffle iron… _

I shook my head and echoed Vee, sanding my hands together and hungrily licking my lips.

Patch smirked and laid a plate down before me. I knew what he was thinking before he even whispered it to my unsuspecting mind. You _look great, Angel. _His voice floated around like a butterfly in the recesses of my mind. Patch's mouth was at that relaxed stage just before a grin_._ I couldn't hide the flush that crept into my cheeks, so I raised a glass of orange juice to my lips, trying to draw the attention away from my burning cheeks.

Patch looked away out of respect, but I knew he was amused. The smirk never left his lips.

He pushed a loaded plate at Vee, and I shoveled waffle into my mouth, appeased.

* * *

Patch and I sat in the Jeep outside of Enzo's Bistro.

I didn't have to explain to him that I felt like I'd stayed out boozing all night, and I thought I might as well have been. I was, without a doubt, irrevocably drunk on Patch. The headache hit me like a wrecking ball—intense, arbitrary, gravity defying—not necessarily in that order. When I looked over, Patch was staring at me, his black eyes hard with concern.

"I'll call you in sick, Nora," he said, sounding like he meant it. Patch killed the engine and reached for his door.

"Don't," I pleaded, making a grab for him and trapping his hand beneath mine. I smiled through sharp pangs as they manifested behind my eyes. "It's just a little headache, Patch. I can still work."

But I couldn't, and not because of my little migraine. I thought I'd be sick after a whole day of furiously grappling with my uncertainty. Was I was content with the cards I'd been dealt? Was I confident with the play I was fixing to make with them? I realized that I didn't know. I _couldn't_ know.

In the end, the night was fast approaching. It all boiled down to _time_. There was no more time to think—no more time to change my mind. In a few hours, I'd be in the Commander with Patch, Southbound out of Coldwater. _It's the only way to keep him safe, _I reasoned, staving off the doubts as they crept into my mind. _Keep running. Buy some time. It won't be forever. Just until Patch— _

Perish the thought.

"I'll be fine, Patch. See you at ten?"

Patch hesitated, eventually easing back into the driver's seat. He nodded firmly, as if to convince himself that I was telling him the truth—I'd be fine. He grunted.

I smiled at him across the front seat, taking his fingers gently in mine. _I will. I really will. I'll be fine, _the gesture said.

He seemed to sense it_. _Our lips met briefly—a soft brush of a kiss—before I pulled back, my hand on my door. I loved how easy it was to fall into Patch, his mouth on mine always a slow and confident reminder that I was never alone—that he would always be there to support and protect me. It was too easy to forget myself when I kissed Patch. I wanted to keep a clear mind about running away with him. So I stopped.

Patch's hand skimmed down my arm as I withdrew, raising gooseflesh in its wake.

Exhaling slowly, I breathed a soft "I love you, Patch."

His lips twitched briefly in a smile. "Call me if it gets worse," he said, relinquishing his hold on me. "I mean it. I'll pick you up."

I slipped from the Jeep and gave him a nod. "Thanks, Patch," I murmured, feeling his eyes on me all the way into the bistro. I paused outside with my hand on the door, staring a long time at my dad's ring on my finger—the one with Patch's name—his _real _name—carved into its underside. I sucked in a deep breath, forced a smile, pushed the door open, and prepared to start my last shift; prepared to kiss my life as I knew it goodbye.

* * *

I worked the next three hours with a quiet determination. The end of my shift was approaching, but I still caught myself casting too many unnecessary glances at the clock on the wall. The second hand seemed to move five times too slow. An hour would pass, and I'd look up at the clock to see that really only a minute had gone by. I was suspended in a strange state of oblivion where time elapsed so slowly, and yet it still felt _too_ fast.

My thoughts of Patch's fate and our plan to leave Coldwater weighed heavily on my mind all night. I'd been grateful for the mild distraction that work provided, but with only a half-hour until closing, the crowd at Enzo's had whittled down to a thin scattering of patrons. Rush hour foot traffic was over. The burdening thoughts returned.

I was about to grab a rag to bus tables with when a woman came in and seated herself in my station. Another quick glance at the clock told me it was now nine thirty-one.

I weaved through tables to reach her, noticing as I approached that she was a teenager rather than a woman, dressed androgynously in boyfriend jeans and a black pullover. She wore the hood low over brown-black tresses, concealing both the length and style. A pair of overly-large designer sunglasses was perched on the bridge of her nose, and those huge Gucci shades at nearly ten at night in a dimly-lit restaurant raised warning flags in my mind.

An irrational part of me suspected that, since it obviously wasn't Jules, I might have been looking at Dabria. I thought on that in the moment it took me to reach her table, but the hair was all wrong, even if she'd dyed it, and the nose had a different, more delicate curve. Besides, I reminded myself, it was Patch's opinion that I was a match for the angel of death since he'd recently stripped her wings.

I sobered up enough to give the girl a winning smile. Coming within hailing distance revealed a lot of things to me—she had golden, honey-colored skin, looking like the result of a few hours in the sun each day rather than a natural complexion. Her jeans lacked shape or definition, baggy about the hips and feet. The denim was marked with holes and tears all the way up the leg—a tasteful kind of distress that only money can buy. Her black hoodie was completely unmarked, not a logo or emblem of any kind to be seen, and though she wore her hood like a curtain, a side-swept fringe of hair over her forehead gave the impression of a fashion-conscious individual. Overall, her whole appearance advertised a clear desire for anonymity.

_My name is Nora, and I'll be your server tonight, _I almost said, but on second thought, I omitted my identity. "What can I get you?" I asked, the tip of my pen pressed to the top page of my notepad. I pressed a little harder to keep my hand from visibly shaking.

Her Jackie Onassis-style shades were black and opaque. I couldn't be sure she was looking at me, but her face was turned my way, and her lips were pursed thoughtfully. A strange silence elapsed—not quite awkward, not quite meaningful, either. Finally, the girl shifted in her chair, crossing her legs at the knees. When she spoke, her voice was clear and strong but undeniably feminine. "Cipriano," she said, hitting the "C" a little hard.

I stifled a flinch. "Excuse me?"

Her lips twitched in a smile. "Ci—pri—a—no," she repeated, accenting each syllable. Though she'd said it harshly, the name rolled off of her tongue, sounding indigenously Italian. Her face remained slack as she peered at me, and she lowered her chin to peer with olive green eyes over the frames of her sunglasses. Without the barest hint of an accent, she tipped her head sideways, as if to study me from a new angle, and said, "Does that name mean anything to you?"

I stared into those Jackie O's and saw my reflection, small and distorted. "No… it doesn't," I lied, and bit the inside of my cheek, praying that my poker-face stayed concrete. "Sorry. Can I get you anything," I tried again, and even though I'd meant it to sound like a question, it came out sounding just this side of a threat.

Her smile tipped a little higher at the slightest hint of menace in my voice, but I doubted I'd really goaded her. She appeared to be debating on something—likely whether or not to pursue the inquiry. I gave her a look that said I wasn't interested in soliciting conversation.

"…No, I don't think you can," the girl said, not unkindly. She took the hint and delivered it with a smile too slight to be genuine.

My mind fooled me into thinking that, after her tight-lipped smile, I'd witnessed something like disappointment in her halcyon features. I instantly wrote it off and tucked my notepad into my back pocket. Slowly, I backpedaled toward the kitchen. "Okay then. Have a nice night," I imparted, twisting on my toes. I put as much distance as I could between the girl and me, trying to retreat at a deliberate, natural pace.

I walked towards the kitchen, ready to grab my purse and my phone and dial Patch as soon as I could. I had to warn him about the mysterious girl. I couldn't just let him come inside when a shady stranger was asking around for him. I made my way back to my locker, pulled my phone out, punched in the speed dial, and sent the call. I'd just narrowly lifted the phone to my ear when I heard the chirp of his cell through the kitchen doors.

My stomach did a painful flip. Patch was already inside.

I ran back to the register in time to see Patch looking for me, my book bag slung over his shoulder. He was in the same dark jeans and tee-shirt, looking casual and sexy standing with his weight on one hip. "Hey," he said when he saw me. Patch reached up with one hand, gripped his trademark baseball cap by the bill, and adjusted it to sit low over his eyes. "You ready to go?"

He smiled rakishly.

If I'd been calm enough, I might have lost myself in that sexy, lopsided grin, windblown hair, and minty fragrance.

I was nowhere _near_ calm enough. Instead, my heart hammered mercilessly in my ribcage, threatening to explode in my chest. My face went slack with dismay, but when I turned to point out the hooded girl…

Patch looked at me with worry in his cold, black eyes, tilting his head to one side. "You okay, Angel?" he asked, taking in my slack jaw and floored expression. She was _gone_.

Patch brushed up against me, his hand on my arm stroking gently to give comfort.

I couldn't believe that this was happening again. If I chalked the girl's disappearance up to hallucinations, or perhaps a Nephil playing on my mind again, I thought I had something to be afraid of. My brain flipped through memories like a photo album, showing me unsolicited images of the man in the ski mask pouncing on Vee's car, the girl in the hooded sweater breaking Vee's arm by the cemetery, the masked stranger jumping out of my bedroom window, leaving behind confusion and destruction. But I'd never _spoken _to any of them—not like I had to the girl in the sunglasses.

Slowly, the tension eased from my body, the rush of adrenaline warranting the return of a violent, stabbing headache. "Just fine," I managed, but I was frowning with my bottom lip between my teeth. "I think someone is out to get me—well, no, out to get _you_."

Patch looked at me askance, an infuriatingly sexy smirk slowly replacing his look of worry. I got mad at myself for feeling butterflies when I should have felt a mix of fear and annoyance. "Nora, there's a whole legion of avenging angels out to get me. This isn't exactly news."

"I know that, Patch, but—!" Before I could say more, Patch raised a finger to his lips, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully at me. His black eyes sliced into mine, not out of anger, but challenging me to say more. I sucked in a breath and glanced around the bistro, understanding his concerns. A few people still lingered to have drinks as the day wound down and the night swept in, and it went without saying that Patch's world operated a lot more smoothly when humans were ignorant of it—his words, not mine.

I rolled my eyes, showing Patch my acceptance, however reluctant it was. It wasn't yet ten o' clock, but one of my coworkers had been waiting silently behind the register, watching Patch a little covetously as he'd listened to me babble about the hooded girl. Interestingly generously, she offered to close without me and giggled nervously when Patch winked and thanked her for her kindness. I slid my phone into my pocket and rolled my eyes at the way she fell apart under Patch's hot gaze. I didn't even pause to admit to myself that he had the same effect on me.

He laid a hand on my shoulder and walked me out of the bistro before I could change my mind about leaving with him. I wouldn't be coming back to Coldwater for a while. That much I knew.

* * *

Patch and I were barely out of the restaurant when I started having second thoughts. He wore my backpack over one shoulder. Knowing that my clothes and personal possessions were in that tiny little bag made me sick to my stomach. "Is that really going to be enough?" I asked, wringing my hands and hoping that he would say no, it isn't, so he could take me home and I could sleep in my bed for just one more night.

My new life, however temporary, was in that little bag. It felt…inadequate.

He nodded, fingers grasping the handle of the rear curbside door. I felt my spirits sink a little and accepted defeat. I was about to put my purse in the passenger seat when I noticed that Patch hadn't moved. There were no words exchanged, but I saw his moment of hesitation before I knew that something was very wrong. Fear choked my throat closed as I relived something terrible. I stepped away from the car and looked wildly around the street for any indication that a Nephil might be manipulating my thoughts.

"Nora," Patch intoned. He said my name like a threat. My eyes flicked to Patch, and I noticed the muscles of his back rippling beneath his thin tee-shirt. "Go back inside."

It seemed like my head was the only responsive part of me, bobbing in a nod even though my legs refused to move. Fear and an unwillingness to abandon Patch kept me rooted to the spot, and just being there made me feel stupid and perversely noble. By that same token, I wasn't exactly useful to Patch just standing there like a lamppost, so I willed movement into my legs, all in vain.

Patch stood between the Jeep and my body, a black silhouette against the bright amber glare of an overhead streetlamp. Patch looked every bit like the angel I knew him to be with a sunburst of light casting a halo around his form, but in the pitch black of night, he looked _fallen_, veiled in the blackness of sin and desire.

Beneath his fingers, the door swung open. Patch reared back a step, firmly planting a boot against the sidewalk. His stance was unsettlingly predatory. His hands made fists at his sides. I sensed a heightened level of danger, but of what nature, I wasn't sure.

"_Questo non __è __come me la immaginavo __ci saremmo incontrati __di nuovo__, __Cipriano__._"

I went cold down to my toes, thinking there was something eerily familiar about the voice of the unveiled speaker. Italian, I thought, unable to hide my frustration when none of the bells rung in my head. It threw me into a reeling state of confusion. One, I didn't speak Italian, and two, neither did Patch, as far as I knew.

Converse high-tops and the tattered hems of baggy jeans appeared beneath the half-open door.

Patch took two placating steps backward, his posture significantly more relaxed. How he remained so calm was beyond me, but he straightened, for the most part unruffled, and sucked a deep breath in through his mouth.

"Patch?" I whispered, my voice wavering with uncertainty.

If this was friend or foe, he wasn't going to tell me. The mystery left me in a suspended state of shock.

Resigned to something, he murmured, "_Quali sono __le __circostanze__?_"

My jaw went slack. Fluency in Italian was not one of the many talents I knew Patch to be capable of, yet her I was, listening to him converse in Italian. As if sensing my disbelief and awe, a laugh like black silk permeated the night, fluttering in the wind. I felt it to my core, as well as on the surface, like ice on my flesh. A phantom presence invaded my mind, and I couldn't deny that for the shortest of moments, it felt good. _What are the circumstances? _the voice whispered in a woman's musical lilt. The cadence, both familiar and alien, was hard to put my finger on.

"_La circostanze potrebbe essere peggiore_," the disembodied voice said aloud, sounding matter-of-fact. Whoever she was, the speaker was confident—maybe even a little smug."_Ho una buona notizia e una cattiva notizia. Che cosa vuoi sapere prima, Jev_?"

I sucked in a sharp breath as the voice stabbed at my brain again, translating. _The circumstances could be worse. I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first, Jev?_

No….

I was sure I understood the situation. Given this, my mind still reeled against the abruptness of it all. I felt violated—invaded—by the thoughts I was sure the ambusher was projecting onto me. I swallowed hard and pushed the impingement aside long enough to focus on my own concerns, of which I had several. The first was that Patch seemed unperturbed in the face of this unexpected threat. The second was that—threat notwithstanding—a mugger, ruffian, ambusher, or something of that nature had been waiting for us in the back of Patch's car. He'd ousted her. All that remained was to see who would attack first—Patch or the woman?

Next, I decided that the would-be ambusher was an angel—maybe even a fallen angel, which might have explained why Patch hadn't already thrown me in the car and driven away. My last concern was that she'd used Patch's real name. Even _I_ hadn't learned Patch's real name until recently. She must have been very _old_ to know him by "Jev," seeing as Rixon was the first to call him "Patch," and they'd been together perhaps as early as the 1500s.

In the short moment it took me to register all of these things, the teenager from the bistro—black hoodie, brown tresses, overly-large sunglasses and all—stepped out from the cover of the car door. She wore no hood, revealing side-parted glossy locks that hung in pin-straight layers around her face. Her longest layer ended just beneath the modest curve of her breasts. Razored bangs fell side-swept over one side of her face. The girl wore a tight-lipped, arrogant little smirk, one corner of her mouth tugged up in a self-satisfied way. It did something interesting to her lips and promised things that I didn't feel comfortable being promised.

Patch regarded her mildly as she gently shut the door. "_Chi ti ha mandato, Mikhail? Gli arcangeli?_" he said, and from the inflection, I thought he was asking a question. I looked to the girl without meaning to, _expecting _her—_daring _her—to speak to my thoughts again and tell me what he'd said.

Like clockwork, her voice sang out to my conscience. _Who sent you, Mikhail? The archangels? _However, this thought, unlike all the others, was dripping with rancor and venom. The malice sent chills up and down my spine, the bitter emotion showing physically on the girl's—Mikhail's—face.

"_Please_," Mikhail scoffed, leaning back against the Commander. She slowly removed her sunglasses, revealing seductive eyes, thick black lashes, and raised brows. She was either amused or skeptical—I didn't know her well enough to be sure. Those calculating olive orbs drifted lazily towards me, and I stifled a rippling shudder as she estimated me for the second time that evening. God, she knew I'd lied about Patch. I considered that maybe she'd known all along. "When's the last time I was on speaking terms with the archangels?" she finished in clear, unaccented English.

Even under the circumstances, I couldn't help but marvel at the abrupt transition—at how _American _Mikhail sounded, as if Italian were only a class she'd taken in high school rather than a native tongue. The pithy brunette didn't even look Italian. She had an all-American veneer, from the edgy hairstyle down to her trendy, modish Chuck Taylors. Taking in her tan skin and windswept hair, she looked like she might have just migrated northeast from New Hampshire, disheveled by the east coast surf. Mikhail looked like she might have even been a high school student, probably old enough to buy her own cigarettes but not quite old enough to buy herself a beer.

I mulled it over in my head until I realized that she and Patch were easily the same—Patch looked the part of the typical all-American teenaged lady killer, his dark clothes, great body, killer smile, and wavy midnight hair painting a picture that promised heartbreak for any girl who dared to play too recklessly. He spoke perfect, unaccented English. And he was apparently fluent in Italian.

"You used to have more trust in people," Mikhail said. "What happened?"

I raised my eyebrows at the thought of Patch putting blind faith in _anyone_.

"The Book of Enoch happened," Patch retorted, his face set in a scowl. He looked annoyed, but not quite angry.

Hurt registered on Mikhail's face, followed by a split second of realization. She made a sound of understanding, her lips forming a smirk and her eyes flashing dangerously as an insight dawned on her. "Not the Book of Enoch. _Rixon_ happened, didn't he?" She relented long enough to snicker before mirroring Patch's stance, crossing her arms over her middle. "Did the Mickey finally pull the wool over your eyes?" she goaded, affecting Rixon's Irish brogue. In her own voice, she said, "The others said as much."

"That's not your business," Patch muttered, unable to hide angry undertones as he uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.

Mikhail's smirk was gone, her expression exhibiting the barest shade of sympathy. "I'm sorry about Rixon. He was just a different brand of fallen." Mikhail pushed hair from her face, looking more tired than before. "My point, _Patch_, is that _I'm_ not Rixon. I've been looking for you…but I wasn't _sent_ by anyone. I was warned, and it concerns you. I just want to help, Patch, I swear. My being here is my decision, not the archangels'. I need your trust."

Patch lingered on uncertainty, his shoulders squared with a stern defensiveness. "Why? Why do you need my trust?"

"Because I'm as good as condemned without you_,_" Mikhail admitted. Well, at least she wasn't falsely modest. "I'm here just as much for myself as I am for you. Call me self-serving, but when the time comes, I'm not trying to buy myself a first-class ticket to hell. I have ambitions. I have goals for this life."

I could tell just by looking at Patch that he was grappling with a decision, gauging Mikhail to see if she could be trusted. I bowed my head, brushing my fingers along the cool silver of Patch's chain about my neck. Just the mystery of Mikhail scared the hell out of me, but something about her felt right, even if I couldn't quite place it.

Patch grunted noncommittally, expressing neither agreement nor disagreement. He flipped midnight hair from his hard eyes and narrowed them at her. "I wasn't born yesterday, Mikhail. What are they promising you?—your wings?—guardianship?"

Annoyance registered on the brunette's face. Her mouth held a neutral line, but I detected a frown trapped behind it. Realizing that winning Patch's trust wasn't going to be easy quickly soured her patience and it showed. "Not at all," Mikhail said, tone flat. "I haven't had direct contact with the archangels in years. It was a Hashmal who brought me the warning, and there was no such promise attached."

Patch's jaw jumped, his body suddenly ramrod straight. "One of the Hashmallim spoke to you. Really." He gave Mikhail a pointed look, no real question in his voice. He sounded doubtful, in fact—sarcastic—as if he put absolutely no store by Mikhail's claim.

I glanced between the two, feeling out of the loop. Who or what were the Hashmallim, and why was Patch so unconvinced? I could tell he was expecting Mikhail to defend her claim, and if not that, gratuitously come forth with the truth.

Mikhail's olive eyes glinted with something like amusement, but it was quickly overshadowed by displeasure at Patch's cynicism. "Don't sound so dubious. If the matter is pressing enough, even a Hashmal will personally deliver a message—to a fallen, human, Nephil, or otherwise." She buffed her fingernails on the shoulder of her pullover, pursing her lips as she examined them for imaginary, microscopic flecks of dust.

Mikhail was giving Patch time to absorb her words. So it wasn't typical of Hashmallim to be bringing messages to Nephilim or fallen angels. What was so critical that Mikhail was the exception? "That's why I'm here now. God knows there's no getting through to you, Patch—not given your delicate…_situation_."

"So what's so important?" Patch demanded, echoing my thoughts. He looked too casual for what the circumstances warranted, just standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking nonchalant.

"That's the fork in the road," Mikhail said, given her turn to sound annoyed. "Heaven has been trying to get your attention, Patch, but they know you're not listening. I'm trying to _help_ you."

Patch snorted, nearly rolling his eyes as he scuffed a black steel-toed boot against the sidewalk. "Heaven's right. I'm not listening," he confirmed, and I saw the patience literally vanish from Mikhail.

"God forbid we discuss the _archangels_," she spat, openly mocking Patch. She didn't stick around to hear a rebuttal if there was one, pushing off of the Commander to leave us alone beneath a streetlamp.

Patch glared after her. I could tell he was resisting the great urge to spit. His fingers closed on my upper arm, and he jerked his head at the car. "Get in the Jeep," he muttered, urging me with gentle force as he yanked open my door. I licked my lips, fingers still gliding along the smooth silver of Patch's necklace.

"No," I said, digging my heels into the ground and anchoring myself to the sidewalk.

Patch jerked. Black eyes slicing into mine, he leveled a firm stare at me. "Nora," he repeated, his words measured. Each utterance carried a note of underlying warning. "Don't even think about it," he continued. "Get in the car." His tone was enough to make me hesitate, but before he could change my mind, I shrugged his hand off and hit the sidewalk at a brisk walk.

Patch swore gently, and my heart squeezed out an extra beat. I quickened my pace to a light jog, knowing that if Patch decided to give chase, I couldn't outrun him. "Mikhail!" I shouted, my eyes on the fallen angel's silhouette in the distance.

I wasn't quite sure _how s_he'd gotten so far in the course of a few seconds, but I was grateful that she waited for me, her hands in her pockets, her olive eyes downcast_._ As I came within hailing distance, I saw that she was trembling.

I panted and cursed myself for being so out of shape. I was winded after such a short jog, but, short as it felt, when I looked back, Patch was a million miles away. "Patch's fate is hanging in the balance of whatever the archangels are planning." I bent over my knees and sucked in a shuddering breath, stray curls falling over my face. "If there's any news at all—even _bad_ news—at least tell _me_. Please."

I half expected her to laugh and leave me standing there like an idiot, but she turned to me with a raised brow, lips tugged up on one side. Mikhail was considering me carefully, eyes flicking between my tired face and Patch, a black spot in the distance. "Is Patch okay with this?"

I looked over my shoulder at his shape against the darkness. "No. But that's never stopped me before."

I turned back to see Mikhail with her hands stacked on her stomach. Her real laughter shocked me. After several seconds, Mikhail sucked in a breath, cheeks flush. "You're not bad," she said, and I refrained from telling her how I didn't like the patronizing sound of that. "So, do you want the good news or the bad news first, Grey?"

Letting go of a sigh, I felt the first remnants of hope stir within me. "Good news first," I said, almost too quickly. I hid my hands behind my back so she wouldn't see my fingers crossed.

Despite the fact that Mikhail seemed to approve of my choice, she looked suddenly more morose. "The archangels have postponed Patch's trial," she intoned. "He's got a little over a month before they resume trying to convict him."

"Wait—_what_?" My face went slack as I struggled to comprehend the news. My heart picked its pace up in my chest. "How? _Why_?"

"Are you ready for the bad news?" Mikhail continued, but she didn't pause long enough for me to respond. "The trial has been postponed because the archangels will have their hands full for the next couple of weeks. You've heard about the Nephilim blood society, right?" She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, feeling the night's breeze on her face. "They want to free Nephilim from bondage to fallen angels during the Hebrew month of Cheshvan. There's a nasty turf war going on between its members and the fallen—"

"And the fallen angels will turn to human vassals if the society becomes too powerful," I finished, impatient. "Tell me something I don't know."

Mikhail didn't seem impressed by my knowledge of the archaic politics of her world. She dropped her chin to look me over, more than obviously amused by my mettle. "I've heard things about you, Nora." And it didn't surprise methat the fallen angel knew my name, either. She'd already called me Grey. "There are less than five months until Cheshvan, and the balance of power between Nephilim and fallen angels has shifted…to favor the Nephilim."

I nodded slowly, and by the look on her face, I clearly didn't register the threat the same way she did. She cocked her head and scowled. "That's a very _bad _thing. To my understanding, it's all the incentive fallen angels need to finally lead their invasion. Tens of thousands of human lives could be lost—_will_ be lost—and the archangels won't interfere where Nephilim are concerned, even for something like this. Nephilim are vile, _decadent _creatures, anyway." She turned her head and spat, dragging her sleeve over her mouth. "I can't say I blame the archangels."

My face warmed at Mikhail's brand of bigotry, which I'd seen so many times from Patch. I wondered if _all_ angels were so radical in their hatred of Nephilim or if it was just the fallen. On second thought, if the archangels were willing to step aside and let tens of thousands of humans die for their want of immaculacy, I had a hunch that it was a mutual, uniform hatred. "The archangels want to eliminate the Nephilim, and this is their opportunity, right?"

Mikhail nodded. "Right—a trap," she confirmed. "_But_—the archangels are only archangels. To sit back and watch a tragedy of biblical proportions unfold, especially at the risk of the lives of countless innocents, would be less than…_heavenly_ behavior. Heaven may no longer be responsible for the Nephilim, but it's still responsible for angels—even the rejects."

I furrowed my brow when she discontinued her explanation, my thirst for knowledge driving me to press Mikhail for more. "I don't understand. What does this mean for humans?"

Mikhail shifted her gaze to stare intently over my shoulder. I felt Patch at my back, dark and silent like a shadow.

"It means, theoretically, they're lucky as hell," Mikhail muttered. I had to wonder what she meant by "theoretically."

Mikhail kept her eyes on me, for the time being disregarding Patch. "There's schism within the hierarchy where Nephilim are concerned. The archangels believe the eradication of the Nephilim race will justify thousands of humans perishing, but the only order lower than the archangels is the angels," she explained, painting an idea in my head of just how big the picture really was. I'd thought all this time that I knew all I needed to know about Patch and his mystical world. I realized now that the archangels were merely the tip of an iceberg that I was only beginning to comprehend. "It's the Hashmallim's responsibility to regulate the duties of the lower angels," Mikhail said. "And the archangels have been overruled."

Unable to stop myself, I shouted with joy. "Overruled!" My face lit up with a renewed hope that was short-lived. Mikhail shook her head at me, lips pressed tight, and I felt the smile instantly leave my face.

"I said the humans are lucky _in_ _theory_. It's one thing to say that the archangels will involve themselves with the invasion; it's another thing to say that they'll give their best effort to stop it. There's going to be an invasion no matter what. If the Nephilim begin to overpower us, the fallen angels _will _turn to human vassals, and people are _still_ going to die. Including Nephilim."

"But _why_?" I interjected. "You said the archangels were overruled—they _have_ to involve themselves and stop the invasion. Can they really just…_fail_ on purpose?"

Patch made a bitter sound, raised his ball cap, and dragged a hand through his hair. "The archangels are involving themselves because they're being commanded to," he said, speaking for the first time since he'd joined us in the middle of the street. "They want nothing to do with the Nephilim, except to eradicate them, which I'm sure they still intend to do. It's just that not every order in the hierarchy thinks it's worth the risk of so many humans dying needlessly—or being otherwise possessed."

"That's so…_unethical_," I said, brow furrowing.

Mikhail said, "The outcome is unclear, Nora. I can't say for sure that I know how the archangels will act. If anything, the number of casualties will be _smaller_, but nonexistent? I just don't think it's possible." She gave me an apologetic look. "If it's any consolation, the virtues are involved—and the Hashmallim." She gave Patch a pointed look, as if to ask him if he _still_ had his doubts about her earlier claims. "And the second sphere is considerably less close-minded about the Nephilim. Its involvement alone will make a difference in the outcome." She made a motion with her hands that said, _there you have it._

A sideways glance at Patch reminded me that he truly was a product of this mystical world. All of the hierarchal jargon and terminology was giving me a killer headache, but heaven was Patch's beginning, and it would also be his end. "Okay…," I said, feeling a train of logic fire up inside my brain. If there was a second sphere, there had to be a first, right? "So you're saying that the second sphere's involvement aloneis affecting the number of human casualties—making them fewer, right?" Mikhail looked at me askance, slowly nodding her confirmation. "So…what happens if the _first sphere_ becomes involved—?"

Patch jerked beside me, and Mikhail's eyes suddenly stretched.

I found myself quivering inside, responding to their collective horror.

"No, that's a bad idea," Patch said, giving a firm shake of his head.

I quashed the feeling of sinking dread within me in favor of pressing on. "Why is that a bad idea?" I demanded. "Tell me the casualties before you tell me it's a bad idea."

"It's not that simple," Mikhail insisted. "Angels of the first sphere just don't _show _themselves to humans. The Hashmal warned me that things will end badly for _any _race if the first sphere has to get involved."

"'End badly,' how?" I pressed, growing impatient. That Patch and Mikhail were withholding information was really starting to tick me off.

"'End badly' as in potentially apocalyptic 'end badly'."

"…you don't mean that," I hedged, but I felt Patch's silver necklace heavy around my neck.

"Think about it," Mikhail said. I did, and it made sense.

"If the first sphere completely wipes out the Nephilim race," Mikhail said, spreading her hands like a book, "fallen angels will have no vassals left to possess. They'll turn to humans as their last and only resort. More humans would die this way than any other way, Nora. The causality would transcend _time_."

I wiped a hand down my face, understanding. "So then what?" I asked. My voice sounded small to my own ears.

"The only way to keep balance in the world is to keep the Nephilim blood society in check," Mikhail offered. "Not looking good for us, presently. Even if the fallen angels were to initiate a preemptive strike on the Nephilim, it would mean the death of many innocents. The Nephilim are too much an integral part of the world of humans to be cleanly separated. There _will_ be carnage."

"So it's a war that can't be won."

"Not likely," Patch answered. He dropped his gaze for the smallest fraction of a second.

"So that's it?" I asked in a low voice. "You're just going to accept it so _easily_?" Patch looked at me, his black eyes somehow even blacker. I held his gaze, having to swallow hard not to cower at the intensity of his stare.

"What would you have me do, Nora?"

Admittedly, I hadn't been counting on him to ask for my opinion. "I…I don't know. Just somethingmore than nothing," I whispered, feeling my last remnants of hope slip away.

Patch's eyes were alight with a fiery determination. "This war is bigger than me, Nora," he said. "There's no exemption—no immunity—not even for you. There will be murder and possession long before the war even begins. My only job is to protect you, archangels and imminent doom notwithstanding."

Knowing that Patch was worried about me—wanted to shield me from the harsh reality of his world—made me warm inside. But what he didn't realize was that I didn't _want_ to be a priority over the fate of the rest of the world. Nothing made my life _that _much more important than the lives of seven billion others.

Beside me, Mikhail sighed, brushing hair from her face. "Patch is right, Nora," she said, her voice a soft whisper. "If there's more that we can do…we _will_. The solution just hasn't presented itself yet."

I glanced at Patch at Mikhail's words, half imagining that he was muttering a sarcastic "_speak for _yourself" to his own thoughts. It was the vibe he gave off as Mikhail settled into a stance that suggested she had nothing more to say. "Thank you, Mikhail," I said slowly, accepting that. "Patch, take me home."

I left him standing there.

In reality, I didn't want Patch to see me cry. Hot tears sprung to my eyes the moment I accepted Mikhail's consolation. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing _anyone _could do—or at least nothing anyone capable of making a difference was actually _willing _to do. I felt as if I'd accepted defeat—as if I'd simply agreed to the decadence of life as I knew it.

"Wait, Nora!"

I stopped. I looked back over my shoulder. Mikhail stood alone in the light of a streetlamp, her hand extended to me. My eyes moved down her arm to her slender piano fingers and her too-long sweater sleeves. I calmly inserted my hand into hers, feeling her warm, firm grip as we shook. She smiled, nodding her approval. "You're welcome," the fallen angel said.

At Patch's impatient grunt, I withdrew.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and gave Patch a nod. We walked back to the Commander, and the scrap of paper Mikhail had slipped me felt like a shard of glass in the palm of my hand.

* * *

"I thought we were leaving Coldwater," Patch muttered as he bounced the Jeep into my driveway. He looked solemn and ice-cold in the moonlight. Patch had been silent the entire drive home, and it came as no surprise to me that when he finally spoke, his tone was harsh and bitter.

"We _were_, but that was when I thought you only had a week left on Earth," I countered, and though I hadn't meant to hurt him, a muscle jumped in his jaw. He was upset.

"_Nora_," he warned. "I'm not the enemy here."

"No," I agreed, blinking several times when I realized that my eyes had gone bleary. I pinched myself to keep from yawning, watching as Patch killed the engine and switched off the headlights. "Maybe not, but you've got something to lose, Patch. I wish you'd stop pretending that this war has nothing to do with you."

I shoved the door open and climbed out of the Jeep, the wind cold on my face as I crossed the yard. I stifled another yawn, quickening my pace when I heard the driver's side door shut. Grass rustled behind me. I didn't get far before Patch caught up, his hand heavy on my shoulder as I ascended the porch steps. "Nora, I don't want to hurt you."

"You're only hurting me if you try to run away from this."

I unlocked the door and stepped into the blackness of my house, his hand falling free of my shoulder. "Nora, don't leave like this." I stepped further into the house, waiting for him to say more. When he didn't, I turned to see him lingering in the doorway, slumped against the frame.

"You can come in," I said, with neither apathy nor enthusiasm.

He made a sound that was almost a sigh as he stepped into the house. The door snicked shut, immersing us in a perfect darkness that I blindly felt my way through. I made it only a couple of steps before Patch's arms encircled me, grabbed me under the knees, and cradled me to his chest. I tucked my head under his chin and let him carry me to my room.

He moved up the stairs and down the hall with liquid grace. I felt like I was floating. Patch found my room at the end of the hall and slipped in without a sound. I was barely awake when he laid me down on my bed, stripped me out of my work clothes, and put me into pajamas. He pulled a light coverlet over my body.

"Nora, your mom will be home tomorrow," he murmured. I felt his hand in my hair, stroking my curls.

"I know," I murmured back, snuggling into the soft down of my pillow. It smelled like Patch, not surprisingly.

"I can't stay with you tonight."

"I know." His hand in my hair went still.

"I love you."

"I know… I love you, too."

Patch pushed the hair from my forehead and kissed me right above my eyebrows, his breath tickling my lashes. "Good night, Angel," was his quiet goodbye. The mattress shifted as his weight rose off the bed.

I lay in silence, counting each moment until I heard the gentle purr of an engine outside the farmhouse. Patch got into the Jeep and drove away.

My last thoughts before I fell asleep were of my handshake with Mikhail. I thought briefly of the scrap of paper the brunette had inconspicuously pressed into my palm, and the way Patch hadn't seemed to notice as I slipped it into my pocket.

Mikhail's message had been entirely clear, and I thought with conviction that Enzo's wasn't the last I'd be seeing of the fallen angel Mikhail. I exhaled slowly and allowed sleep to claim me, feeling suddenly lighter for the knowledge that Patch and I might no longer be alone in this battle where the odds were so disparate.

For the umpteenth time in my life, I owed my thanks to a fallen angel.

* * *

**And there you have Mint Soap, chapter 2! Thanks for reading.**


	3. The Higher They Are

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not claim ownership of the _Hush, Hush Saga_ by Becca Fitzpatrick, including the three existing installments and any installments not yet in publication. Additionally, _Mint Soap_ is a pure work of fiction, mostly irrelevant to the ending of Crescendo and the events of Silence.

**IMPORTANT WARNING: **This piece is rated M for mature content, adult themes, and worst of all…SPOILERS! You have been generously warned.

**NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:** Thanks for tuning in! I hope chapter 2 wasn't too difficult to follow. The politics are always the hardest part to write, but I'll do my best to be as clear as possible in the future. I used a lot of angelic jargon in chapter 2, but, if I'm being completely honest, everything I mentioned came from the Wikipedia article "Christian angelic hierarchy." Hopefully I can clear up any confusion in the chapters to come—if not, Wikipedia could probably explain it better lol.

Next, there's no sex in this chapter! I'm sorry! (Hides) There's not even much fluff. It's just a filler chapter, really. Something I needed to do to get the plot rolling. I hope it's not too boring… But don't lose your faith in me! You can expect some fluff and/or smut in chapter 4. Either way, I'll make it up to you!

I'd also like to add that I've set a goal for myself! I'm going to try to update more often, since it's the summer now, and improve the quality of this story for my faithful readers! I've gotten 100% positive feedback so far, and I'm so grateful for that!—but I discovered this positively _amazing _Hunger Games fic by a first time FF writer (she goes by Devanrae), titled _The Luxury and the Necessity_. She is _incredible. _Reading her story has really made me want to be better, so I'm going to try to add more detail and tune into my characters as best I can. Please let me know if it's working! While I'm at it, if you love Peeta x Katniss and _The Hunger Games_ and are in search of a romantic, well-written, steamy read, I implore you to check out her story!

Enjoy chapter 3! And thanks for the reviews and favorites! It always means so much to me!

**IMPORTANT MESSAGE: **I began writing _Mint Soap _before the publication of Silence by Becca Fitzpatrick, so yes, a lot of really crazy and important stuff happened in that book, but none of it applies to this fic! Try not to let it confuse you!

* * *

"_What's it like?" I ventured, not really wanting to know. I sounded defeated, even to myself._

"_I haven't had the bad luck to find out. By hearsay, it's the scariest place in the cosmos, next to hell." _Oh, fantastic._ "Believe it or not, some angels get along alright in hell—Rixon, for example. I hear he's doing alright. Granted, I don't really know what _alright_ means—alright, compared to, say, bamboo under your nails, maybe? Or death by castration? Whatever it is, it's got to be better than a lifetime of imprisonment under the watchful eye of the Divine Guard. The hardest trauma to recover from is psychological, after all, and the Divine Guard lives and breathes manipulation. It's a total mind fuck, so I've heard. But no, I've never heard anyone say that the poor mates in heaven's penitentiary are doing _alright._"_

* * *

**Mint Soap**  
A _Hush, Hush Saga _Fanfiction by xXSoldierXx

I found Mom in the kitchen, kneeling over the island with a newspaper in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. She looked up from the front page just as I was finishing my braid, dropped everything and nearly ran for me. "Oh, Nora!" she sighed, and I had a moment to judge that the force with which she came at me was superfluous for a hug. She gathered me into her arms with the ferocity of a mother bear, the force of our collision throwing me back a whole step. But Mom never let me fall. Her arms tightened around me, held me flush to her. She seemed to actually _breathe _me in as we stood there, locked in an embrace. I felt her body relax, muscle by muscle, cell by cell, into my arms, which now gripped her just as tightly, and suddenly I understood. "I missed you so much, sweetie," Mom sighed, hands comforting me, tracing patterns up and down along my spine.

"I've missed you, too, Mom," I whispered fiercely into her shoulder, the emotion suddenly rising into my throat, _choking_ me. But I clung to her like a child, inhaled her the same way that she inhaled me, and felt that I could breathe again. We held each other like that for a long time, and after a while I reluctantly removed myself from the safety of those arms which have always protected me. When I looked into her eyes, I saw the unrepressed joy there—saw everything I'd been feeling reflected in those pale gray orbs. I saw love, happiness, appreciation—even sadness, shame, and guilt.

_Why?_

I immediately regretted that I'd almost left this woman behind, if only for a little while—this woman who so unconditionally loved me. Mom left the comfort of her home for weeks at a time; she drove hundreds of miles to pay for a house that was too big, too expensive. She never said boo about it, and she did it all for me—because I couldn't let go of a few childhood memories—memories that were fleeting, anyway. _I'm a monster_, I thought, looking deep into those eyes. I hadn't even planned to leave a note of goodbye. Her generosity and sacrifice shamed me.

I realized then the kind of daughter I'd been to her since Patch came into my life—the kind that took, took, took—always taking, never giving. I realized it, and I didn't want to be that anymore—couldn't even remember _becoming_ that. I used to ask myself why bad things happened to good people, and as my mother pulled me in for another hug, rocked me in her arms, drank me in after just another work week away from home, not even knowing that things had changed and were still _going_ to change, I thought to myself that this was why: "I've taken you for granted, Mom, and I'm so sorry for it. I haven't really _been there _for you, and that's going to change."

Her eyes, as she drew back, never lost their sparkle, but something changed in her expression. She looked at me with something like jubilant skepticism, as if maybe she were struggling to decide if she should be flattered or if Ashton Kutcher was going to jump out of the refrigerator and tell her she'd been Punk'd. Mom cupped my cheek in her hand and shook her head good-naturedly—a sympathy gesture that seemed to say, _no you haven't been a terrible daughter_. But, mom being mom, she always knew the right thing to say. "I forgive you, Nora," she said, firmly and without hesitation. Her skin felt warm on my face—grew hotter as a bit of that skepticism edged into her lilting, musical voice.

I'd confused her, I knew, but I offered no explanation—only waited for her to say something more.

"You know…I take you for granted sometimes, too," Mom confessed, slowly. A flush of color came over her, rouged her cheeks, made her look so young with her hair unbound and her face full of color. "I hope that doesn't make me a terrible mother, Nora. It's just…it's a shame, is what it is. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm only human—"

"_ItsokayMom_," I blurted—couldn't get the words out fast enough. I hadn't intended for my apology to somehow unleash this kind of emotional floodgate, but I knew once we started, we wouldn't be able to stop. I wanted desperately to nip it in the bud before the heartfelt confessions and tears could come spilling over the broken dam, wash away all of my self-control.

But Mom wouldn't be cowed. "No, really, Nora," she insisted, her hand on my face becoming a finger, pressed to my lips. My hands fell to my sides, limp with defeat, and I waited for her to go on, felt my lips burn where we touched. "It needs to be said, honey. I realized these things, but then I _forgave_ myself, okay? I told myself I would make it up to you in any way I could. I'm human," she repeated. "_Only _human. And as humans, we don't always realize that the greatest things we could ask for in life are the things we already have." She said this last part with a smile as she comfortingly stroked my arms. "Life is too short for regrets, Nora. It's what I was trying to say."

Despite myself, I felt the truth of her words like an electric shock, deep in my soul. All the nights I spent wondering if Mom really was who she said she was or if she'd been lying to me all my life, just because Marcie said she may or may not have been having an affair with her dad… So what if she had been? So what if she still was? As much as it pained me to think it, what if she loved him? What if Mom _loved _Hank Millar? Who would I be to hate her so much for loving someone?

Put that way, I had no desire, no _incentive_ whatsoever, to call her out on her alleged affair. I didn't even know what I'd say.

If anything, the conversation would end predictably with us holding each other by the fireplace, bawling miserably and moaning that we never meant to hurt each other, would always love each other no matter what, over and over. The outcome was _unequivocally_ predictable, in fact, so I spared myself the embarrassing moments in between and satisfied myself with knowing that none of the important things had really changed.

_But_, I reminded myself, still a bit disheartened and unsettled by the dishonesty that existed between us now, _she's going to have to own up to it sooner or later.  
_  
My life as I knew it seemed to evolve on a daily basis, one revolutionary event after another creating this sort of organized chaos that revolved around me—a great, bright explosion of bad luck and stray curls—at its center. As the days go by, my gravitational pull seems to grow ever stronger, drawing in more and more chaos all around me. Optimism used to allow me to wish it all away, but knowing better that the universe is too cruel to grant wishes, I now strive to, instead, take command of it.

I looked at Mom for what seemed like a long time, thinking about what she'd said. Then I looked to myself—dug deep. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I'd really wasted so much time. I wasted precious time being unlawfully angry at my mother. And what of all the months I spent engaging in petty games, trying to make Patch jealous, push him away, and believe passionately that I hated him for breaking my heart? I was paying for it now. Even with Patch's trial postponement affording him this precious extra month on Earth, it seemed like too little. Even a year would be too little if it meant it had to end.

_Patch_. I missed Patch. I'd been so hard on him the night before.

Mom took me into her arms a third time, probably sensing that my grief went deeper than the two of us. She comforted me like mothers do—wanted to soothe it—so I let her, feeling as if her wisdom, her comfort, the simple essence of her _mom-ness_ was just the right medicine for this kind of hurt. I needed to put the pieces back together, hold them in place. She was the glue that made me feel whole again.

I wasn't quite ready for her to ask me why I'd apologized, not entirely confident in my ability to keep my own secrets, so after a long moment of tranquil rehabilitation, I gently untangled myself from her restorative embrace and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm glad you're home," I said earnestly, then had to force myself to tear my eyes away. I grabbed my newsboy cap off the island, tucked it under my arm as I grabbed my purse off the counter. Mom stepped back and tightened the belt on her robe, her pale gray eyes alighting on me curiously. As I gathered my things, her smile seemed to thin, but it was sincere, all the same. I knew she sensed that I was dictating the end of our brief conversation, and I felt bad to do it to her—felt bad to know that _I_ was the one causing her feelings of too little time, so like my own. All I could do was promise her more.

"I'll try to be home at a reasonable hour, okay?" I compromised, smiling. "I'll bring some bagels. We can have breakfast together in the morning."

I was grateful when my suggestion seemed to lighten her mood. "That sounds wonderful, baby," Mom said, accompanying me to the foyer. I couldn't help but notice the definitive note of wistfulness in her voice. _I'll make it up to you, Mom. I promise, _I thought, as she saw me out the door. "Bye, Nora," she said. "Be safe." And she watched me get in my car and drive away.

* * *

Never, _ever_ enough time.

I broke the speed limit on the way to Enzo's, trying to make up for the minutes I'd lost holding onto Mom, holding myself together. I silently cursed the gods of bad circumstance at every red light, every elderly driver, every detour, obstacle, and roadblock along the way. In the end, I punched in just barely on time.

My boss gave me a playful nudge—accused me of "cutting it close"; I preferred to think of it as earnest punctuality.

I was tucking my braid into my newsboy cap when I emerged into the bistro, dressed in my gray work slacks, vest, and a pink pin tuck shirt. I tied the strings on my black waist apron and pulled out my ticket pad. "Order up, Nora," the man in the window said, not wasting a minute. He lifted two plates onto the countertop and I arranged them in a row on my arm. I read the ticket—table ten. Not my station, but I did someone a favor and delivered the order anyway.

Enzo's was packed with the usual Sunday morning church diners, and as the hours ticked by, it only grew busier. Every server on payroll was working the floor that morning, the staff in a frenzy to get orders to tables, plates to the dishwashing station, and patrons out the door. Refreshing beverages alone kept me on my feet for most of an hour, so it wasn't until I made my way back to the order window that I allowed myself to _really_ look around, see the adults taking coffee over business, little kids inhaling their desserts.

One little boy in particular caught my eye, dark-haired, olive-skinned, with big, round eyes as black and hard as obsidian. His hair curled in little black waves around his tiny ears, into the collar of his dress shirt. His chubby little fist held a spoon that he brandished like a sword, then dipped like a jet plane through the air and into his caramel sundae. Despite the specious coldness of his eyes, he looked _happy_, innocent as most children are, and I let myself see Patch in him—wondered if this is what a younger version of him might have looked like.

I grew soft at the thought of it, came unhinged, and that was when I became unguarded enough to pick _her_ voice out of the din. My blood went instantly cold, and I turned apprehensively in the direction of the noise. There she was, Marcie Millar, on the far end of the bistro—hard _not_ to notice her. Surrounded by her preppy friends, chattering absent-mindedly—and _loudly_—she was impossible to miss.

I felt my heart in my throat at the sight of her, dressed head to toe in distinguished Italian designer clothing. I'd been avoiding Marcie for the longest time—specifically since her "relationship" with Patch had ended, but even more so after discovering that she and I, _maybe_, shared the same father.

I wanted desperately to hate her. In a way, it was easier to, knowing that she could possibly be…my _sister_. (The thought of the word alone poisons my mind.) But in other ways, knowing made it harder. What if Marcie turned out to be my sister after all?—my family? Could I bring myself to hate my own flesh and blood? _The answer is yes, _I thought vehemently, looking at her lounging there in her element, looking so self-assured. It would be so _easy _to hate her—the same way, if it turned out to be true, that I would hate Hank Millar for rendering my life a falsehood with his mere existence. I didn't want to think of the tremendous lie my life would become if it was ever proven that Hank Millar, not Harrison Grey, was my natural father.

I still refused to put "Marcie" and "sister" in the same spoken sentence, unless there was an absolute negative somewhere in between. Who did she think she was anyway, dumping information like that on me without a second thought? I honestly didn't think I could hold Marcie any lower in opinion, but no person is _that_ stupid. She must have known what she was doing—breaking my life, tearing apart everything I thought I'd come to know. Truth was, I could go forever without ever learning the truth of my parentage and I'd be just fine.

But Marcie couldn't even let me have that much. The Millar was always ruining things for me—my high school reputation, my relationship with Patch, my peace of mind: the one thing I'd thought that I was completely in control of.

I tried not to let myself think of that as I took Marcie in, pale yellow mid-thigh dress, pointed white heels, hair pinned back. Marcie looked _pretty_, I admitted, and it stung me like a bee. _Yes_, I thought. She _was_ pretty. But she looked nothing like _me_. I saw none of myself in her and held onto that like a lifeline. The more and more I repeated it to myself, the harder I looked—searched her face for a laugh line, a dimple, a beauty mark—_anything _that would link us fraternally. It was impossible not to stare once I noticed the way she swept her head from side to side, as if she were looking for someone. I prayed to the gods of sympathy that that someone wasn't _me_.

By then, I'd stopped moving and realized too late that I was full-out intently _glaring _at her. I tried not to let the cold irony deter me when I noticed where she was. Seated at the same table as the day I'd humiliated myself singing "Happy Birthday, Marcie." It hadn't even been her birthday.

_Just another thing she ruined for me, _I thought. It seemed that there would be no end to these things.

It was as if this thought alone prompted Marcie to look my way, because she did at that very moment. She looked up, icy eyes locking unerringly onto mine, and she smiled with a sick satisfaction that sent a shiver up my spine, against my every willful plea that it not. She'd purposely seated herself in my station. I suspected she'd earnestly been _expecting_ me.

I tore my eyes away, congratulated myself for lasting this long, and accepted defeat. There was no more avoiding this moment. I knew it full well. Despite this, I put up a valiant struggle against my pride, which persistently fought to cram itself down my throat. _Swallow it, _my conscience goaded me, and in the end, my conscience won. My pride went down, drier than an iron pill.

I approached Marcie _very _cautiously, my unenthusiastic, "Can I help you?" heralding the ugly exchange that followed. Bully for me that my voice didn't waver—for the most part, I looked indifferent, sounded indifferent. I just didn't _feel _indifferent, which Marcie would never have the satisfaction of knowing.

Marcie exchanged glances with her tablemates—actually _nudged_ one of them with her elbow—and gave me a flippant roll of her big, stupid doe eyes. "What do you _think_?" she jeered, her too-white teeth clicking viciously together. "I'm not just sitting here for my health, _Nora_." She said my name the way most people say "maggots."

"_Obviously _you can help me. I _expect _you to help me," she continued. I ignored the prickling skin at the nape of my neck, bit my tongue—refrained from saying something I might get fired for. "I want a medium low-fat soy latte with a shot of chocolate—no! Make that French vanilla. Oh, and no foam, Nora. If there's so much as a _bubble_ in my latte, I will send it back. Rush my order, too. Actually _rush it _this time."

Rush a latte…

_I hate you, _I thought. Lattes at Enzo's don't take more than three minutes to prepare. The request was redundant, but I drew in a deep breath and counted to ten. Okay, not quite. I counted to two. _Don't punch her in the nose, don't punch her in the nose—_my silent mantra—had the stronger, much-desired calming effect. I produced a pen from my apron and scribbled her order on a fresh ticket, resisting the urge to write "heavy on the spit" in the special cooking instructions space.

When I asked her friends for their orders, they actually turned me away. _So much for my tip, _I thought with menace, jaw locked tighter than a vice. "Coming right up," I said through my teeth, managing not to sound too much like an angry bulldog. I couldn't get away fast enough.

I was about to hand the ticket off to another server when I heard the angry _click-clack_ of Marcie's heels. I tensed up, resisting the fight or fight reflex that suddenly favored the urge to duck and cover. When her hand fell on my shoulder, uncharacteristically unaggressive, I had to actually _will_ myself not to run. I hated the feeling of walking on egg shells.

Marcie's face, when I turned to look at it, was set in a menacing scowl. She narrowed her eyes and gave my shoulder what I thought might easily have been a sympathy squeeze, but was more likely one of warning. "_Look_, Nora," Marcie hissed, baring her teeth in the most vicious snarl I'd ever seen on a human being. I could have been looking a grizzly in the face. "I didn't waste my time and gas just to antagonize you—Well, _Jesus_, Nora, try not to look so _surprised_, would you? I do it despite myself—but really, can you blame me?"

_So counterintuitive_, my conscience sneered, and I smacked it with a mental newspaper. Did I sense an apology coming on?

Marcie let go of my shoulder and wiped her hands on her dress, as if to remove the taint. "I wanted to talk to you about that _thing_ in my diary." I knew without asking exactly what she was referring to. I didn't bother to tell her that I'd never actually read her journal though. I knew everything I needed—really wanted, and _didn't_ want—to know. "That day in my yard—we should talk about it sometime. We owe it to ourselves."

Her final words came out slowly—bitingly. It might have actually _burned_ her to speak them aloud. For that reason, I believed for the most fleeting of moments that I was actually on the receiving end of Marcie Millar's attempt to be _kind _to another human being, or at least the least bit civil. I had to admire her ability to let bygones be bygones, if nothing else—and I would probably never admire her again.

Even so, after everything she'd done—everything she'd put me through—I wasn't the least bit tempted to make things easy on her. I waited five excruciating beats before cautiously assenting. "Sure. We'll talk about it sometime," I agreed, but I gave her a pointed look that said I wasn't interested in soliciting further conversation.

Marcie considered me carefully, seemed to get the message and actually honored it. She gave a nod that said she agreed to the terms of our truce, if you could even call it that. Really it _was_ a truce of sorts, however small. "Right," was all Marcie said, before she turned on her designer heels and _click-clacked_ out of the bistro.

I looked down at the notepad in my hand—at her unfilled order—tore out the ticket, and threw it away.

* * *

It was five-past-two when I stepped outside for my lunch break, a puffy bread roll in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I'd never used my lunch breaks to eat in all the time I'd been working at Enzo's, but Marcie's unexpected visit had my stomach in knots. I tore off a hunk of the roll and swallowed it down, then fished Mikhail's paper scrap out of my waist apron where I'd put it for safe keeping. Ten digits in a flowing, feminine hand stared up at me, _willed_ me to dial them. Just beneath the numbers, her message was concise but persuasive. Three little words: _I can help._

It only rang twice before Mikhail picked up, and in a voice as cool as the underside of the pillow, she breathed my name like a prayer. "Hello, Nora Grey. I've been expecting your call."

Predictable girl that I am, Mikhail probably knew the time that I'd call, right down to the minute. I kept this opinion to myself as I glanced down the street towards a four way intersection—looked for any signs of Patch's Jeep, as if I expected it to come barreling down the street at any moment. In a way, I did. I wondered if his Spidey Senses were tingling somewhere out there, wherever he was.

"In your note," I blurted, barely squeezing the words out. I had to talk fast, because if I didn't I thought I might lose my nerve. Calling Mikhail behind Patch's back felt like a betrayal, though I couldn't say why. She never explicitly told me to keep the call between the two of us, but part of me knew that the secrecy served a purpose—she thought Patch would disapprove. I thought he would, too. "You said you could help Patch. How?"

"Ah, yes, I can send you the coordinates for safe houses along the coast," Mikhail replied, not missing a beat. I had to hand it to her, she didn't waste time. "I know a guy—a close associate of mine; he'll set you up with the works—fake IDs, cars, money, food, clothing—anything you need. We just need to set up a secure rendezvous point, okay? The information I have for you _must _stay secure, understand. We don't want the Nephilim compromising the information, so I need you to get to a payphone if there's one nearby. Best avenue for communication when you're on the run, unless you can get to an internet café. There are a few of those in the tourist towns along the coast. Incognito web browsing is kind of rudimentary for this type of work, but it will do for all intents and purposes."

I stood there in silence, hung on Mikhail's every word as she chattered on about IP addresses and disposable cell phones. With the phone pressed to my ear and my mouth slightly agape, I attracted a few gawping stares, the odd looks making me feel naked, more exposed than ever—probably not what Mikhail would have wanted. Passersby rubbernecked. I avoided their eyes. _How many of these people are actually Nephilim? _I wondered, submitting to her paranoia.

I realized Mikhail wasn't talking anymore, but I didn't know what to say. I could barely process all of her information. Where did Mikhail think I was anyway? All this talk about payphones, tourist towns along the coast, internet cafes and being on the run—her words, all of them; relativity: zero.

"Nora, are you with me?"

"Where do you think I _am_, anyway?" I thought aloud, and I found myself looking down the street again, this time to see if Mikhail was lurking around in her hoodie and boy jeans, dodging cop cars and hiding in alleyways. She scared me a little, but I'd never give voice to _that _thought.

Mikhail was the silent one this time. I listened closely for something that might tell me where she was—sounds of traffic, people, the impact of billiard balls maybe—but there was nothing, no background noise whatsoever. It was so silent I thought the call might even have dropped. Before I could say her name, slowly, she hedged, "I don't know…where _are _you, Nora?"

"The curb outside of Enzo's. Why so secret, Mikhail? I mean, where are _you_?"

Mikhail swore softly. "You're _where_?" I heard the first stirrings of background noise—nothing much. Just the sound of a chair—her chair, probably—scraping back on tile, the _thump-thump-thump_ of rubber soles briskly pounding across a wood floor. "I thought you left last night with Patch—I saw the bags in his car."

I tried not to be offended by Mikhail's blatant dismay with me. "No, we stayed," I answered honestly, taking a smaller bite of the bread roll. My stomach was turning flips now—doing violent gymnastics. "You said Patch's trial was postponed, so I didn't feel the need to run anymore. Not so soon, at least. I'm staying in Coldwater."

Mikhail swore softly again, and I nearly swore back, I was so mad. I heard the jingle of keys, and then a door slammed shut with force. "Is Patch okay with this?"

"I didn't exactly ask him for permission," I said flatly. "I have a life here, you know. I have family who need me. I can't just leave." I realized that now.

"Well that's just _great_, Nora," Mikhail snapped, in a dismissive tone that said she really didn't give a hoot. "But just because the trial is postponed doesn't mean you're off the hook. The archangels are still looking for Patch." Silence. Then, "_Dammit_…I was _really_ counting on you to call me from a ropy tavern in Tobago or something, not _Enzo's_, of all places."

First of all, I didn't think there _were _seedy places in Tobago, but I forwent that thought to ask Mikhail about the archangels. "You just said 'looking'—the archangels are _looking _for Patch. You mean to say they don't know where he is?"

"Of course they do. They know he's in _Coldwater_—which is why you should have left, you see?" Mikhail was beginning to calm down finally, but I could still hear the edge of nervousness in her voice. I knew I'd really ruined her plans, but she hadn't exactly been explicit about them. I didn't know how to, or if I even should, make it up to her.

"Okay then, tell me this," I tried. "Patch's trial isn't for another month. What can the archangels do to him until then?"

"You're overlooking a very obvious similarity between the human and angelic justice systems, Nora," Mikhail explained. A powerful engine roared to life somewhere in the background. "Patch has fallen twice now from the hierarchy—first he was stripped of his rank as an archangel, then he lost his guardianship. He's violated sacred laws. His trial may not be for another month, but he's got a stack of outstanding warrants and capiases in his name for various other preexisting offenses—and offenses committed _thereafter_." She said this last word with very specific connotations, and I began to catch her drift.

"The archangels are going to take every opportunity to nail him for something petty," Mikhail continued. "If he so much as _jaywalks_, they'll be all over him for violating human edicts. Not to mention, any fool can see that you and Patch are sleeping together. That's about as bad as it gets to them, Nora—it's _scandalous_, fornication with a mortal human. It doesn't help his case at all that you're the descendant of a _Nephil_. They have the mother lode of dirt on him. It's pure shit. If they even spare his life, he'll be on the rough end of a divine decree for the rest of his immortal life. Forget parole."

I felt heat in my face but couldn't bring myself to be indignant about her blatant accusations. I couldn't, because I knew that her indictments were true. She was right, and I knew it. _I_ was Patch's dirty little secret. I was his forbidden fruit, and he'd eaten me in the most literal and metaphorical senses alike. _This is my fault, _I thought. I'd always known, but it hadn't hurt to acknowledge it until now. Patch had always been so _okay _with it—so adamant that he would face an eternity in the bowels of hell for me—the Book of Enoch, hopes for a human body, and archangels be damned—because _I_ was what he wanted most from his Earthly life.

"Where do criminals go while they await conviction, Nora?"

_Don't! _I thought. _Don't make me think about it!_

But it was too late. The cold feeling settled over me. "Oh," I said. "_Oh_…."

Patch hadn't said anything, but I was _sure_ he knew the consequences of staying in Coldwater all along. _Why didn't he stop me?_

"They go into custody," I answered stiffly. Suddenly, my tongue felt two sizes too big for my mouth.

"Mmm, and for a place with heaven's merciful reputation, I hear the heavenly equivalent of police custody is hellacious," Mikhail said—the last thing I wanted to hear.

"What's it like?" I ventured, not really wanting to know. I sounded defeated, even to myself.

"I haven't had the bad luck to find out. By hearsay, it's the scariest place in the cosmos, next to hell." _Oh, fantastic._ "Believe it or not, some angels get along alright in hell—Rixon, for example. I hear he's doing alright. Granted, I don't really know what _alright _means—_alright_, compared to, say, bamboo under your nails, maybe? Or death by castration? Whatever it is, it's got to be better than a lifetime of imprisonment under the watchful eye of the Divine Guard. The hardest trauma to recover from is psychological, after all, and the Divine Guard lives and breathes manipulation. It's a total mind fuck, so I've heard. But no, I've never heard anyone say that the poor mates in heaven's penitentiary are doing _alright_."

She exhaled a shuddering breath, and a beat passed before she spoke again. "You sin once and they never let you forget it. You know that saying, 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall'? We have a similar saying in heaven—'the _higher_ you are, the _further_ you fall.' That's basically our justice system in a nutshell. It's not very original, I know."

"Is it too late?"

"It's not too late," Mikhail said. "It's never too late. I'm coming. Wait for me."

* * *

I found Mikhail in the Enzo's parking lot at the end of my six-hour shift. Though, if I'm being entirely honest, I nearly mistook her for someone else. She sat on the hood of my fancy sports car, Scott's _really_ generous gift to me, iced out in loud silver accent jewelry, black leather boots, and a scandalously short sundress. Her dark chocolate hair fell long and straight to the modest underswell of her breasts, and her big Gucci shades were perched atop her head.

She smiled at me with teeth as white as the cotton of her dress, her sleek, sexy confidence giving me thoughts I wasn't used to having about other girls. Nearly everything about the Mikhail before me was a far cry from the girl I'd met the night before, when her vicious and cold demeanor were hidden in darkness and shapeless boy's clothing. "Quite the fashion statement you're making," I said, trying not to sound so…shocked. I unlocked my car and opened the driver's side door.

As I climbed in, Mikhail jumped off of the hood and slid in beside me, reclining the seatback and making herself comfortable. "Thank you," she said, with neither a hint of sincerity nor sarcasm. She lowered her shades to shield her eyes from the brilliant afternoon sun. "Blending in here is too easy. I'm just not so sure how I feel about the local fashions yet. A _little_ slutty," she added, drawing out the "little."

I immediately thought of Marcie Millar in her pale yellow sundress and white designer heels and agreed that Mikhail's cotton sundress was the stuff of Marcie's closet. "You could be stark naked and you'd still blend in," I said, believing it. There was just something about Mikhail—the same thing about Patch and Dabria and Chauncey—that drew the eyes to the face and little else.

"Why would I want to be naked?" Mikhail asked, and when I looked at her, she stared straight ahead with a smirk on her lips. _Someone is in a better mood, _I thought, though for the life of me, I wasn't sure _how_. I felt everything Mikhail had told me like a paperweight in my stomach, heavy and awkward. It didn't belong there. Even hours after our phone call, the wounds were still fresh.

"Try not to look so morose," Mikhail challenged me. I felt a muscle jump in my jaw. "I mean it. It's going to be alright. I'm going to do everything I can to help, Nora, but you need to be in top form. You're not making it any easier on me—or yourself, for that matter—by languishing in a quarry of self-pity."

Her words, though a bit harsh, were encouraging. I stared at my reflection in the lenses of her sunglasses—imagined that I could make out the pale olive green of her irises behind the blackness, see the deep dance of her faith in me there.

"Okay, I'll try to lighten up," I promised. "Where are we going anyway?"

"Delphic," Mikhail answered, face splitting in a roguish grin. "I hope you brought your swimsuit."

* * *

**That's all for now! Thanks for reading; see you hopefully soon in Chapter 4!**


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